AT   LOS  ANGELES 


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THE    GREY     WIG 


Jw¥* 


The    Grey   Wig 


Stories  and  Novelettes 


By 

I.    Zangwill 

Author  of 

"  The  Mantle  of  Elijah  " 

"  Children  of  the  Ghetto  " 

etc.,  etc. 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON  :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 
I903 

j&ll  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1902, 
By   I.   ZANGWILL. 

Copyright,  1903, 
By  THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  February,  1903. 


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NortaooB  Jjkcss 

J.  S.  Cushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TO 

MY    MOTHER   AND    SISTERS 

THIS   BOOK 

fHatnb  a  Stutiu  of  ^Toman 

IS   LOVINGLY    DEDICATED 


• 


PREFATORY    NOTE 

This  Volume  embraces  my  newest  and  oldest 
work,  and  includes  —  for  the  sake  of  uniformity  of 
edition  —  a  couple  of  shilling  novelettes  that  are 
out  of  print. 

I.  Z. 

Mentone, 

February,  1903. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Grey  Wig i 

Chasse-Croise 44 

The  Woman  Beater 75 

The  Eternal  Feminine 106 

The  Silent  Sisters 127 

The  Big  Bow  Mystery 136 

Merely  Mary  Ann 314 

The  Serio-comic  Governess 446 


THE    GREY    WIG 


They  both  styled  themselves  "  Madame,"  but  only 
the  younger  of  the  old  ladies  had  been  married. 
Madame  Valiere  was  still  a  demoiselle,  but  as  she 
drew  towards  sixty  it  had  seemed  more  convenable 
to  possess  a  mature  label.  Certainly  Madame  De- 
pine  had  no  visible  matrimonial  advantages  over  her 
fellow-lodger  at  the  Hotel  des  Tourterelles,  though 
in  the  symmetrical  cemetery  of  Montparnasse  (Sec- 
tion 22)  wreaths  of  glass  beads  testified  to  a  copious 
domesticity  in  the  far  past,  and  a  newspaper  picture 
of  a  chasseur  d'Afrique  pinned  over  her  bed  recalled 
—  though  only  the  uniform  was  the  dead  soldier's  — 
the  son  she  had  contributed  to  France's  colonial 
empire.  Practically  it  was  two  old  maids  —  or  two 
lone  widows  —  whose  boots  turned  pointed  toes 
towards  each  other  in  the  dark  cranny  of  the  ram- 
bling, fusty  corridor  of  the  sky-floor.  Madame 
Depine  was  round,  and  grew  dumpier  with  age ; 
"  Madame "  Valiere  was  long,  and  grew  slimmer. 
Otherwise  their  lives  ran  parallel.  For  the  true 
madame  of  the  establishment  you  had  to  turn  to 
Madame  la  Proprietaire,  with  her  buxom  bookkeeper 
of   a  daughter  and  her  tame  baggage-bearing   hus- 

1 


2  THE    GREY    WIG 

band.  This  full-blooded,  jovial  creature,  with  her 
swart  moustache,  represented  the  only  Parisian  suc- 
cess of  three  provincial  lives,  and,  in  her  good- 
nature, had  permitted  her  decayed  townswomen  — 
at  as  low  a  rent  as  was  compatible  with  prudence 
—  to  shelter  themselves  under  her  roof  and  as  near 
it  as  possible.  Her  house  being  a  profitable  warren 
of  American  art-students,  tempered  by  native  jour- 
nalists and  decadent  poets,  she  could,  moreover, 
afford  to  let  the  old  ladies  off  coffee  and  candles. 
They  were  at  liberty  to  prepare  their  own  dejeuner  in 
winter  or  to  buy  it  outside  in  summer;  they  could 
burn  their  own  candles  or  sit  in  the  dark,  as  the 
heart  in  them  pleased  ;  and  thus  they  were  as  cheaply 
niched  as  any  one  in  the  gay  city.  Rentih'es  after  their 
meticulous  fashion,  they  drew  a  ridiculous  but  regular 
amount  from  the  mysterious  coffers  of  the  Credit 
Lyonnais. 

But  though  they  met  continuously  in  the  musty 
corridor,  and  even  dined  —  when  they  did  dine  — 
at  the  same  cremerie,  they  never  spoke  to  each 
other.  Madame  la  Proprietaire  was  the  channel 
through  which  they  sucked  each  other's  history,  for 
though  they  had  both  known  her  in  their  girlish 
days  at  Tonnerre,  in  the  department  of  Yonne, 
they  had  not  known  each  other.  Madame  Valiere 
(Madame  Depine  learnt,  and  it  seemed  to  explain 
the  frigidity  of  her  neighbour's  manner)  still  trailed 
clouds    of    glory    from    the    service   of    a  Princess  a 


THE    GREY    WIG  3 

quarter  of  a  century  before.  Her  refusal  to  wink 
at  the  Princess's  goings-on,  her  austere,  if  provincial, 
regard  for  the  convenances,  had  cost  her  the  place, 
and  from  these  purpureal  heights  she  had  fallen 
lower  and  lower,  till  she  struck  the  attic  of  the 
Hotel  des  Tourterelles. 

But  even  a  haloed  past  does  not  give  one  a 
licence  to  annoy  one's  neighbours,  Madame  Depine 
felt  resentfully,  and  she  hated  Madame  Valiere  as 
a  haughty  minion  of  royalty,  who  kept  a  cough, 
which  barked  loudest  in  the  silence  of  the  night. 

"  Why  doesn't  she  go  to  the  hospital,  your  Prin- 
cess ?  "    she  complained  to  Madame  la  Proprietaire. 

"  Since  she  is  able  to  nurse  herself  at  home," 
the  opulent-bosomed  hostess  replied  with  a  shrug. 

"At  the  expense  of  other  people,"  Madame  De- 
pine retorted  bitterly.  "  I  shall  die  of  her  cough, 
I  am  sure  of  it." 

Madame  showed  her  white  teeth  sweetly.  "  Then 
it  is  you  who  should  go  to  the  hospital." 

II 

Time  wrote  wrinkles  enough  on  the  brows  of  the 
two  old  ladies,  but  his  frosty  finger  never  touched 
their  glossy  brown  hair,  for  both  wore  wigs  of  nearly 
the  same  shade.  These  wigs  were  almost  symbolic 
of  the  evenness  of  their  existence,  which  had  got 
beyond  the  reach  of  happenings.  The  Church 
calendar,  so  richly  dyed  with  figures  of   saints  and 


THE    GREY   WIG 


martyrs,  filled  life  with  colour  enough,  and  fast-days 
were  almost  as  welcome  as  feast-days,  for  if  the 
latter  warmed  the  general  air,  the  former  cloaked 
economy  with  dignity.  As  for  Mardi  Gras,  that 
shook  you  up  for  weeks,  even  though  you  did  not 
venture  out  of  your  apartment;  the  gay  serpentine 
streamers  remained  round  one's  soul  as  round  the 
trees. 

At  intervals,  indeed,  secular  excitements  broke  the 
even  tenor.  A  country  cousin  would  call  upon  the 
important  Parisian  relative,  and  be  received,  not  in 
the  little  bedroom,  but  in  state  in  the  mustily  mag- 
nificent salon  of  the  hotel  —  all  gold  mirrors  and 
mouldiness  —  which  the  poor  country  mouse  vaguely 
accepted  as  part  of  the  glories  of  Paris  and  success. 
Madame  Depine  would  don  her  ponderous  gold 
brooch,  sole  salvage  of  her  bourgeois  prosperity; 
while,  if  the  visitor  were  for  Madame  Valiere,  that 
grande  dame  would  hang  from  her  yellow,  shrivelled 
neck  the  long  gold  chain  and  the  old-fashioned  watch, 
whose  hands  still  seemed  to  point  to  regal  hours. 

Another  break  in  the  monotony  was  the  day  on 
which  the  lottery  was  drawn  —  the  day  of  the  pagan 
god  of  Luck.  What  delicious  hopes  of  wealth  flamed 
in  these  withered  breasts,  only  to  turn  grey  and  cold 
when  the  blank  was  theirs  again,  but  not  the  less  to 
soar  up  again,  with  each  fresh  investment,  towards 
the  heaven  of  the  hundred  thousand  francs !  But  if 
ever  Madame  Depine  stumbled  on  Madame  Valiere 


THE    GREY    WIG  5 

buying  a  section  of  a  billet  at  the  lottery  agent's,  she 
insisted  on  having  her  own  slice  cut  from  another 
number.  Fortune  itself  would  be  robbed  of  its  sweet 
if  the  "  Princess  "  should  share  it.  Even  their  com- 
mon failure  to  win  a  sou  did  not  draw  them  from 
their  freezing  depths  of  silence,  from  which  every 
passing  year  made  it  more  difficult  to  emerge.  Some 
greater  conjuncture  was  needed  for  that. 

It  came  when  Madame  la  Proprietaire  made  her 
debat  one  fine  morning  in  a  grey  wig. 

Ill 

Hitherto  that  portly  lady's  hair  had  been  black. 
But  now,  as  suddenly  as  darkness  vanishes  in  a  tropic 
dawn,  it  was  become  light.  No  gradual  approach  of 
the  grey,  for  the  black  had  been  equally  artificial. 
The  wig  is  the  region  without  twilight.  Only  in  the 
swart  moustache  had  the  grey  crept  on,  so  that  per- 
haps the  growing  incongruity  had  necessitated  the 
sudden  surrender  to  age. 

To  both  Madame  Depine  and  Madame  Valiere  the 
grey  wig  came  like  a  blow  on  the  heart. 

It  was  a  grisly  embodiment  of  their  secret  griefs, 
a  tantalising  vision  of  the  unattainable.  To  glide 
reputably  into  a  grey  wig  had  been  for  years  their 
dearest  desire.  As  each  saw  herself  getting  older 
and  older,  saw  her  complexion  fade  and  the  crow's- 
feet  gather,  and  her  eyes  grow  hollow,  and  her 
teeth  fall  out  and  her  cheeks  fall  in,  so  did  the  impro- 


6  THE    GREY   WIG 

priety  of  her  brown  wig  strike  more  and  more  humili- 
atingly  to  her  soul.  But  how  should  a  poor  old 
woman  ever  accumulate  enough  for  a  new  wig  ? 
One  might  as  well  cry  for  the  moon  —  or  a  set  of 
false  teeth.     Unless,  indeed,  the  lottery  —  ? 

And  so,  when  Madame  Depine  received  a  sister-in- 
law  from  Tonnerre,  or  Madame  Valiere's  nephew 
came  up  by  the  excursion  train  from  that  same  quiet 
and  incongruously  christened  townlet,  the  Parisian 
personage  would  receive  the  visitor  in  the  darkest 
corner  of  the  salon,  with  her  back  to  the  light,  and  a 
big  bonnet  on  her  head  —  an  imposing  figure  repeated 
duskily  in  the  gold  mirrors.  These  visits,  instead  of 
a  relief,  became  a  terror.  Even  a  provincial  knows 
it  is  not  convenable  for  an  old  woman  to  wear  a  brown 
wig.     And  Tonnerre  kept  strict  record  of  birthdays. 

Tears  of  shame  and  misery  had  wetted  the  old 
ladies'  hired  pillows,  as  under  the  threat  of  a  provin- 
cial visitation  they  had  tossed  sleepless  in  similar 
solicitude,  and  their  wigs,  had  they  not  been  wigs, 
would  have  turned  grey  of  themselves.  Their  only 
consolation  had  been  that  neither  outdid  the  other, 
and  so  long  as  each  saw  the  other's  brown  wig,  they 
had  refrained  from  facing  the  dread  possibility  of 
having  to  sell  off  their  jewellery  in  a  desperate  effort 
of  emulation.  Gradually  Madame  Depine  had  grown 
to  wear  her  wig  with  vindictive  endurance,  and  Madame 
Vali£re  to  wear  hers  with  gentle  resignation.  And 
now,  here  was  Madame  la  Proprietaire,  a  woman  five 


THE    GREY   WIG  7 

years  younger  and  ten  years  better  preserved,  putting 
them  both  to  the  public  blush,  drawing  the  hotel's 
attention  to  what  the  hotel  might  have  overlooked,  in 
its  long  habituation  to  their  surmounting  brownness. 
More  morbidly  conscious  than  ever  of  a  young 
head  on  old  shoulders,  the  old  ladies  no  longer 
paused  at  the  bureau  to  exchange  the  news  with 
Madame  or  even  with  her  black-haired  bookkeeping 
daughter.  No  more  lounging  against  the  newel  un- 
der the  carved  torch-bearer,  while  the  journalist  of 
the  fourth  floor  spat  at  the  Dreyfusites,  and  the  poet 
of  the  entresol  threw  versified  vitriol  at  perfidious 
Albion.  For  the  first  time,  too  —  losing  their  chan- 
nel of  communication  —  they  grew  out  of  touch  with 
each  other's  microscopic  affairs,  and  their  mutual 
detestation  increased  with  their  resentful  ignorance. 
And  so,  shrinking  and  silent,  and  protected  as  far  as 
possible  by  their  big  bonnets,  the  squat  Madame 
Depine  and  the  skinny  Madame  Valiere  toiled  up 
and  down  the  dark,  fusty  stairs  of  the  Hotel  des 
Tourterelles,  often  brushing  against  each  other,  yet 
sundered  by  icy  infinities.  And  the  endurance  on 
Madame  Depine's  round  face  became  more  vindic- 
tive, and  gentler  grew  the  resignation  on  the  angular 
visage  of  Madame  Valiere. 

IV 

"  Tiens !    Madame    Depine,    one  never    sees    you 
now."     Madame    la    Proprietaire   was   blocking    the 


8  THE    GREY    WIG 

threshold,  preventing  her  exit.  "  I  was  almost  think- 
ing you  had  veritably  died  of  Madame  Valiere's 
cough." 

"One  has  received  my  rent,  the  Monday,"  the  lit- 
tle old  lady  replied  frigidly. 

"  Oh  !  la  !  la  /"  Madame  waved  her  plump  hands. 
"And  La  Valiere,  too,  makes  herself  invisible.  What 
has  then  happened  to  both  of  you  ?  Is  it  that  you 
are  doing  a  penance  together  ?  " 

"  Hist !  "  said  Madame  Depine,  flushing. 

For  at  this  moment  Madame  Valiere  appeared  on 
the  pavement  outside  bearing  a  long  French  roll  and 
a  bag  of  figs,  which  made  an  excellent  lunch  at  low 
water.  Madame  la  Proprietaire,  dominatingly  be- 
striding her  doorstep,  was  sandwiched  between  the 
two  old  ladies,  her  wig  aggressively  grey  between 
the  two  browns.  Madame  Valiere  halted  awkwardly, 
a  bronze  blush  mounting  to  match  her  wig.  To  be 
seen  by  Madame  Depine  carrying  in  her  meagre 
provisions  was  humiliation  enough ;  to  be  juxta- 
posited  with  a  grey  wig  was  unbearable. 

"  Maman,  maman,  the  English  monsieur  will  not 
pay  two  francs  for  his  dinner  !  "  And  the  distressed 
bookkeeper,  bill  in  hand,  shattered  the  trio. 

"  And  why  will  he  not  pay  ?  "  Fire  leapt  into  the 
black  eyes. 

"  He  says  you  told  him  the  night  he  came  that  by 
arrangement  he  could  have  his  dinners  for  one  franc 
fifty." 


THE    GREY   WIG  9 

Madame  la  Proprietaire  made  two  strides  towards 
the  refractory  English  monsieur.  "  /  told  you  one 
franc  fifty  ?  For  dejeuner,  yes,  as  many  luncheons 
as  you  can  eat.  But  for  dinner  ?  You  eat  with  us 
as  one  of  the  family,  and  vin  compris  and  cafe  like- 
wise, and  it  should  be  all  for  one  franc  fifty !  Mon 
Dieu  !  it  is  to  ruin  oneself.  Come  here."  And  she 
seized  the  surprised  Anglo-Saxon  by  the  wrist  and 
dragged  him  towards  a  painted  tablet  of  prices  that 
hung  in  a  dark  niche  of  the  hall.  "  I  have  kept  this 
hotel  for  twenty  years,  I  have  grown  grey  in  the  ser- 
vice of  artists  and  students,  and  this  is  the  first  time 
one  has  demanded  dinner  for  one  franc  fifty !  ': 

"  She  has  grown  grey  !  "  contemptuously  muttered 
Madame  Valiere. 

"  Grey  ?  She  !  "  repeated  Madame  Depine,  with 
no  less  bitterness.  "  It  is  only  to  give  herself  the  air 
of  a  grande  dame  !  " 

Then  both  started,  and  coloured  to  the  roots  of 
their  wigs.  Simultaneously  they  realised  that  they 
had  spoken  to  each  other. 

V 

As  they  went  up  the  stairs  together  —  for  Madame 
Depine  had  quite  forgotten  she  was  going  out  —  an 
immense  relief  enlarged  their  souls.  Merely  to  men- 
tion the  grey  wig  had  been  a  vent  for  all  this  morbid 
brooding;  to  abuse  Madame  la  Proprietaire  into  the 


10  THE    GREY   WIG 

bargain  was  to  pass  from  the  long  isolation  into  a 
subtle  sympathy. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  did  say  one  franc  fifty,"  observed 
Madame  Valiere,  reflectively. 

"Without  doubt,"  Madame  Depine  replied  vi- 
ciously. "  And  fifty  centimes  a  day  soon  mount  up 
to  a  grey  wig." 

"  Not  so  soon,"  sighed  Madame  Valiere. 

"  But  then  it  is  not  only  one  client  that  she  cheats." 

"  Ah  !  at  that  rate  wigs  fall  from  the  skies,"  ad- 
mitted Madame  Valiere. 

"  Especially  if  one  has  not  to  give  dowries  to  one's 
nieces,"  said  Madame  Depine,  boldly. 

"  And  if  one  is  mean  on  New  Year's  Day,"  re- 
turned Madame  Valiere,  with  a  shade  less  of 
mendacity. 

They  inhaled  the  immemorial  airlessness  of  the 
staircase  as  if  they  were  breathing  the  free  air  of 
the  forests  depicted  on  its  dirty-brown  wall-paper.  It 
was  the  new  atmosphere  of  self-respect  that  they  were 
really  absorbing.  Each  had  at  last  explained  herself 
and  her  brown  wig  to  the  other.  An  immaculate  hon- 
esty (that  would  scorn  to  overcharge  fifty  centimes 
even  to  un  Anglais),  complicated  with  unwedded 
nieces  in  one  case,  with  a  royal  shower  of  New 
Year's  gifts  in  the  other,  had  kept  them  from  sel- 
fish, if  seemly,  hoary-headedness. 

"  Ah  !  here  is  my  floor,"  panted  Madame  Valiere 
at  length,  with  an  air  of  indicating  it  to  a  thorough 


THE    GREY    WIG  11 

stranger.     "  Will  you  not  come  into  my  room  and  eat 
a  fig?     They  are  very  healthy  between  meals." 

Madame  Depine  accepted  the  invitation,  and  enter- 
ing her  own  corner  of  the  corridor  with  a  responsive 
air  of  foreign  exploration,  passed  behind  the  door 
through  whose  keyhole  she  had  so  often  peered. 
Ah !  no  wonder  she  had  detected  nothing  abnormal. 
The  room  was  a  facsimile  of  her  own  —  the  same 
bed  with  the  same  quilt  over  it  and  the  same  crucifix 
above  it,  the  same  little  table  with  the  same  books  of 
devotion,  the  same  washstand  with  the  same  tiny  jug 
and  basin,  the  same  rusted,  fireless  grate.  The  ward- 
robe, like  her  own,  was  merely  a  pair  of  moth-eaten 
tartan  curtains,  concealing  both  pegs  and  garments 
from  her  curiosity.  The  only  sense  of  difference 
came  subtly  from  the  folding  windows,  below  whose 
railed  balcony  showed  another  view  of  the  quarter, 
with  steam-trams  —  diminished  to  toy  trains  —  puff- 
ing past  to  the  suburbs.  But  as  Madame  Depine's 
eyes  roved  from  these  to  the  mantelpiece,  she  caught 
sight  of  an  oval  miniature  of  an  elegant  young 
woman,  who  was  jewelled  in  many  places,  and  cor- 
responded exactly  with  her  idea  of  a  Princess ! 

To  disguise  her  access  of  respect,  she  said  ab- 
ruptly, "  It  must  be  very  noisy  here  from  the  steam- 
trams." 

"  It  is  what  I  love,  the  bustle  of  life,"  replied 
Madame  Valiere,  simply. 

Ah  !  "  said  Madame  Depine,  impressed   beyond 


(< 


12  THE    GREY    WIG 

masking-point,  "  I  suppose  when  one  has  had  the 
habit  of  Courts  —  " 

Madame  Valiere  shuddered  unexpectedly.  "  Let 
us  not  speak  of  it.     Take  a  fig." 

But  Madame  Depine  persisted  —  though  she  took 
the  fig.  "  Ah  !  those  were  brave  days  when  we  had 
still  an  Emperor  and  an  Empress  to  drive  to  the  Bois 
with  their  equipages  and  outriders.  Ah,  how  pretty 
it  was !  " 

"  But  the  President  has  also  "  —  a  fit  of  cough- 
ing interrupted  Madame  Valiere  —  "  has  also  out- 
riders." 

"  But  he  is  so  bourgeois  —  a  mere  man  of  the  peo- 
ple," said  Madame  Depine. 

"  They  are  the  most  decent  sort  of  folk.  But  do 
you  not  feel  cold  ?  I  will  light  a  fire."  She  bent 
towards  the  wood-box. 

"  No,  no ;  do  not  trouble.  I  shall  be  going  in 
a  moment.  I  have  a  large  fire  blazing  in  my 
room." 

"  Then  suppose  we  go  and  sit  there,"  said  poor 
Madame  Valiere. 

Poor  Madame  Depine  was  seized  with  a  cough, 
more  protracted  than  any  of  which  she  had  com- 
plained. 

"  Provided  it  has  not  gone  out  in  my  absence," 
she  stammered  at  last.  "  I  will  go  first  and  see  if  it 
is  in  good  trim." 

"  No,  no  ;  it  is  not  worth  the  trouble  of  moving." 


THE    GREY   WIG  13 

And  Madame  Valiere  drew  her  street-cloak  closer 
round  her  slim  form.  "  But  I  have  lived  so  long  in 
Russia,  I  forget  people  call  this  cold." 

"  Ah  !  the  Princess  travelled  far  ?  "  said  Madame 
Depine,  eagerly. 

"  Too  far,"  replied  Madame  Valiere,  with  a  flash 
of  Gallic  wit.  "  But  who  has  told  you  of  the 
Princess  ?  " 

"  Madame  la  Proprietaire,  naturally." 

"  She  talks  too  much  —  she  and  her  wig  !  " 

"  If  only  she  didn't  imagine  herself  a  powdered 
marquise  in  it !  To  see  her  standing  before  the  mir- 
ror in  the  salon  !  " 

"  The  beautiful  spectacle ! "  assented  Madame 
Valiere. 

"Ah!  but  I  don't  forget — if  she  does  —  that  her 
mother  wheeled  a  fruit-barrow  through  the  streets  of 
Tonnerre !  " 

"  Ah  !  yes,  I  knew  you  were  from  Tonnerre  —  dear 
Tonnerre ! " 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  " 

"Naturally,  Madame  la  Proprietaire." 

"  The  old  gossip  !  "  cried  Madame  Depine  — 
"  though  not  so  old  as  she  feigns.  But  did  she  tell 
you  of  her  mother,  too,  and  the  fruit-barrow  ?  " 

"  I  knew  her  mother  —  une  brave femme" 

"  I  do  not  say  not,"  said  Madame  Depine,  a  whit 
disconcerted.  "  Nevertheless,  when  one's  mother  is 
a  merchant  of  the  four  seasons —  " 


14  THE    GREY    WIG 

"  Provided  she  sold  fruit  as  good  as  this  !  Take 
another  fig,  I  beg  of  you." 

"Thank  you.  These  are  indeed  excellent,"  said 
Madame  Depine.  "  She  owed  all  her  good  fortune 
to  a  coup  in  the  lottery." 

"  Ah  !  the  lottery  ! "  Madame  Valiere  sighed. 
Before  the  eyes  of  both  rose  the  vision  of  a  lucky 
number  and  a  grey  wig. 

VI 

The  acquaintanceship  ripened.  It  was  not  only 
their  common  grievances  against  fate  and  Madame 
la  Proprietaire  :  they  were  linked  by  the  sheer  physi- 
cal fact  that  each  was  the  only  person  to  whom  the 
other  could  talk  without  the  moibid  consciousness  of 
an  eye  scrutinising  the  unseemly  brown  wig.  It  be- 
came quite  natural,  therefore,  for  Madame  Depine  to 
stroll  into  her  "  Princess's  "  room,  and  they  soon  slid 
into  dividing  the  cost  of  the  fire.  That  was  more 
than  an  economy,  for  neither  could  afford  a  fire 
alone.  It  was  an  easy  transition  to  the  discovery 
that  coffee  could  be  made  more  cheaply  for  two,  and 
that  the  same  candle  would  light  two  persons,  pro- 
vided they  sat  in  the  same  room.  And  if  they 
did  not  fall  out  of  the  habit  of  companionship  even 
at  the  cremerie,  though  "  two  portions  for  one  "  were 
not  served,  their  union  at  least  kept  the  sexagenari- 
ans in  countenance.  Two  brown  wigs  give  each 
other  a  moral  support,  are  on  the  way  to  a  fashion. 


THE    GREY    WIG  15 

But  there  was  more  than  wigs  and  cheese-parings 
in  their  camaraderie.  Madame  Depine  found  a 
fathomless  mine  of  edification  in  Madame  Valiere's 
reminiscences,  which  she  skilfully  extracted  from 
her,  finding  the  average  ore  rich  with  noble  streaks, 
though  the  old  tirewoman  had  an  obstinate  way  of 
harking  back  to  her  girlhood,  which  made  some 
delvings  result  in  mere  earth. 

On  the  Day  of  the  Dead  Madame  Depine  emerged 
into  importance,  taking  her  friend  with  her  to  the 
Cemetery  Montparnasse  to  see  the  glass  flowers 
blooming  immortally  over  the  graves  of  her  husband 
and  children.  Madame  Depine  paid  the  omnibus 
for  both  (inside  places),  and  felt,  for  once,  superior 
to  the  poor  "  Princess,"  who  had  never  known  the 
realities  of  love  and  death. 


VII 

Two  months  passed.  Another  of  Madame  Valiere's 
teeth  fell  out.  Madame  Depine's  cheeks  grew  more 
pendulous.  But  their  brown  wigs  remained  as  fade- 
less as  the  cemetery  flowers. 

One  day  they  passed  the  hairdresser's  shop  to- 
gether. It  was  indeed  next  to  the  tobacconist's,  so 
not  easy  to  avoid,  whenever  one  wanted  a  stamp  or 
a  postcard.  In  the  window,  amid  pendent  plaits  of 
divers  hues,  bloomed  two  wax  busts  of  females  — 
the  one  young  and  coquettish  and  golden-haired,  the 


16  THE    GREY    WIG 

other  aristocratic  in  a  distinguished  grey  wig.  Both 
wore  diamond  rosettes  in  their  hair  and  ropes  of 
pearls  round  their  necks.  The  old  ladies'  eyes  met, 
then  turned  away. 

"  If  one  demanded  the  price ! "  said  Madame 
Depine  (who  had  already  done  so  twice). 

"  It  is  an  idea !  "  agreed  Madame  Valiere. 

"The  day  will  come  when  one's  nieces  will  be 
married." 

"  But  scarcely  when  New  Year's  Day  shall  cease 
to  be,"  the  "Princess"  sighed. 

"  Still,  one  might  win  in  the  lottery !  " 

"Ah!  true.     Let  us  enter,  then." 

"One  will  be  enough.  You  go."  Madame  De- 
pine  rather  dreaded  the  coiffeur,  whom  intercourse 
with  jocose  students  had  made  severe. 

But  Madame  Valiere  shrank  back  shyly.  "  No, 
let  us  both  go."  She  added,  with  a  smile  to  cover 
her  timidity,  "Two  heads  are  better  than  one." 

"You  are  right.  He  will  name  a  lower  price  in 
the  hope  of  two  orders."  And,  pushing  the  "  Prin- 
cess "  before  her  like  a  turret  of  defence,  Madame 
Depine  wheeled  her  into  the  ladies'  department. 

The  coiffeur,  who  was  washing  the  head  of  an 
American  girl,  looked  up  ungraciously.  As  he  per- 
ceived the  outer  circumference  of  Madame  Depine 
projecting  on  either  side  of  her  turret,  he  emitted  a 
glacial  "  Bon  jour,  me s dames." 

"Those  grey  wigs  — "  faltered   Madame  Valiere. 


THE    GREY    WIG  17 

"  I  have  already  told  your  friend."  He  rubbed 
the  American  head  viciously. 

Madame  Depine  coloured.  "But  —  but  we  are 
two.     Is  there  no  reduction  on  taking  a  quantity  ?  " 

"  And  why  then  ?  A  wig  is  a  wig.  Twice  a 
hundred  francs  are  two  hundred  francs." 

"  One  hundred  francs  for  a  wig  !  "  said  Madame 
Valiere,  paling.  "  I  did  not  pay  that  for  the  one  I 
wear." 

"  I  well  believe  it,  madame.  A  grey  wig  is  not 
a  brown  wig." 

"  But  you  just  said  a  wig  is  a  wig." 

The  coiffeur  gave  angry  rubs  at  the  head,  in  time 
with  his  explosive  phrases.  "You  want  real  hair, 
I  presume  —  and  to  your  measure  —  and  to  look 
natural  —  and  convenable!"  (Both  old  ladies  shud- 
dered at  the  word.)  "Of  course,  if  you  want  it 
merely  for  private  theatricals — " 

"  Private  theatricals  !  "  repeated  Madame  Depine, 
aghast. 

"A  comedienne's  wig  I  can  sell  you  for  a  bagatelle. 
That  passes  at  a  distance." 

Madame  Valiere  ignored  the  suggestion.  "  But 
why  should  a  grey  wig  cost  more  than  any  other?" 

The  coiffeur  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Since  there 
are  less  grey  hairs  in  the  world  —  " 

"  Comment  /"  repeated  Madame  Valiere,  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  It   stands  to  reason,"  said  the  coiffeur.     "  Since 


18  THE    GREY    WIG 

most  persons  do  not  live  to  be  old  —  or  only  live  to 
be  bald."  He  grew  animated,  professorial  almost, 
seeing  the  weight  his  words  carried  to  unthinking 
bosoms.  "  And  since  one  must  provide  a  fine  hair- 
net for  a  groundwork,  to  imitate  the  flesh-tint  of  the 
scalp,  and  since  each  hair  of  the  parting  must  be 
treated  separately,  and  since  the  natural  wave  of  the 
hair  must  be  reproduced,  and  since  you  will  also 
need  a  block  for  it  to  stand  on  at  nights  to  guard 
its  shape  —  " 

"  But  since  one  has  already  blocks,"  interposed 
Madame  Depine. 

"  But  since  a  conscientious  artist  cannot  trust 
another's  block !  Represent  to  yourself  also  that 
the  shape  of  the  head  does  not  remain  as  fixed  as 
the  dome  of  the  Invalides,  and  that — " 

"Eh  Hen,  we  will  think,"  interrupted  Madame 
Valiere,  with  dignity. 

VIII 

They  walked  slowly  towards  the  Hotel  des  Tour- 
terelles. 

"  If  one  could  share  a  wig !  "  Madame  Depine 
exclaimed  suddenly. 

"  It  is  an  idea,"  replied  Madame  Valiere.  And 
then  each  stared  involuntarily  at  the  other's  head. 
They  had  shared  so  many  things  that  this  new 
possibility  sounded  like  a  discovery.  Pleasing  pic- 
tures   flitted  before  their  eyes  —  the  country  cousin 


THE    GREY    WIG  19 

received  (on  a  Box  and  Cox  basis)  by  a  Parisian  old 
gentlewoman  sans  peur  and  sans  rcprochc ;  a  day 
of  seclusion  for  each  alternating  with  a  day  of 
ostentatious    publicity. 

But  the  light  died  out  of  their  eyes,  as  Madame 
Depine  recognised  that  the  "  Princess's  "  skull  was 
hopelessly  long,  and  Madame  Valiere  recognised 
that  Madame  Depine's  cranium  was  hopelessly  round. 
Decidedly  either  head  would  be  a  bad  block  for  the 
other's  wig  to  repose  on. 

"  It  would  be  more  sensible  to  acquire  a  wig  to- 
gether, and  draw  lots  for  it,"  said  Madame  Depine. 

The  "  Princess's "  eyes  rekindled.  "  Yes,  and 
then  save  up  again  to  buy  the  loser  a  wig." 

"  Parfaitement"  said  Madame  Depine.  They 
had  slid  out  of  pretending  that  they  had  large  sums 
immediately  available.  Certain  sums  still  existed  in 
vague  stockings  for  dowries  or  presents,  but  these, 
of  course,  could  not  be  touched.  For  practical 
purposes  it  was  understood  that  neither  had  the 
advantage  of  the  other,  and  that  the  few  francs  a 
month  by  which  Madame  Depine's  income  exceeded 
Madame  Valiere's  were  neutralised  by  the  superior 
rent  she  paid  for  her  comparative  immunity  from 
steam-trams.  The  accumulation  of  fifty  francs  apiece 
was  thus  a  limitless  perspective. 

They  discussed  their  budget.  It  was  really  almost 
impossible  to  cut  down  anything.  By  incredible 
economies  they  saw  their  way  to  saving  a  franc  a 


20  THE    GREY   WIG 

week  each.  But  fifty  weeks !  A  whole  year, 
allowing  for  sickness  and  other  breakdowns !  Who 
can  do  penance  for  a  whole  year  ?  They  thought  of 
moving  to  an  even  cheaper  hotel  ;  but  then  in  the 
course  of  years  Madame  Valiere  had  fallen  three 
weeks  behind  with  the  rent,  and  Madame  Depine 
a  fortnight,  and  these  arrears  would  have  to  be 
paid  up.  The  first  council  ended  in  despair.  But 
in  the  silence  of  the  night  Madame  Depine  had 
another  inspiration.  If  one  suppressed  the  lottery 
for  a  season  ! 

On  the  average  each  speculated  a  full  franc  a 
week,  with  scarcely  a  gleam  of  encouragement.  Two 
francs  a  week  each  —  already  the  year  becomes  six 
months !  For  six  months  one  can  hold  out.  Hard- 
ships shared  are  halved,  too.  It  will  seem  scarce 
three  months.     Ah,  how  good  are  the  blessed  saints ! 

But  over  the  morning  coffee  Madame  Valiere 
objected  that  they  might  win  the  whole  hundred 
francs  in  a  week ! 

It  was  true  ;  it  was  heartbreaking. 

Madame  Depine  made  a  reckless  reference  to  her 
brooch,  but  the  Princess  had  a  gesture  of  horror. 
"And  wear  your  heart  on  your  shawl  when  your  friends 
come?"  she  exclaimed  poetically.  "  Sooner  my  watch 
shall  go,  since  that  at  least  is  hidden  in  my  bosom  !  " 

"Heaven  forbid!"  ejaculated  Madame  Depine. 
"  But  if  you  sold  the  other  things  hidden  in  your 
bosom  !  " 


THE    GREY   WIG  21 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"The  Royal  Secrets." 

The  "  Princess  "  blushed.  "  What  are  you  think- 
ing of  ? " 

"  The  journalist  below  us  tells  me  that  gossip 
about  the  great  sells  like  Easter  buns." 

"  He  is  truly  below  us,"  said  Madame  Valiere, 
witheringly.  "  What !  sell  one's  memories  !  No, 
no ;  it  would  not  be  convcnable.  There  are  even 
people  living  —  " 

"But  nobody  would  know,"  urged  Madame  Depine. 

"  One  must  carry  the  head  high,  even  if  it  is  not  grey." 

It  was  almost  a  quarrel.  Far  below  the  steam- 
tram  was  puffing  past.  At  the  window  across  the 
street  a  woman  was  beating  her  carpet  with  swift, 
spasmodic  thwacks,  as  one  who  knew  the  legal  time 
was  nearly  up.  In  the  tragic  silence  which  followed 
Madame  Valiere's  rebuke,  these  sounds  acquired 
a  curious  intensity. 

"  I  prefer  to  sacrifice  the  lottery  rather  than 
honour,"  she  added,  in  more  conciliatory  accents. 

IX 

The  long  quasi-Lenten  weeks  went  by,  and  un- 
flinchingly the  two  old  ladies  pursued  their  pious 
quest  of  the  grey  wig.  Butter  had  vanished  from 
their  bread,  and  beans  from  their  coffee.  Their 
morning  brew  was  confected  of  charred  crusts,  and 
as    they    sipped   it    solemnly    they    exchanged    the 


22  THE    GREY    WIG 

reflection  that  it  was  quite  equal  to  the  coffee  at  the 
cremerie.  Positively  one  was  safer  drinking  one's  own 
messes.  Figs,  no  longer  posing  as  a  pastime  of  the 
palate,  were  accepted  seriously  as  pikes  de  resistance. 
The  Spring  was  still  cold,  yet  fires  could  be  left  to 
die  after  breakfast.  The  chill  had  been  taken  off, 
and  by  midday  the  sun  was  in  its  full  power.  Each 
sustained  the  other  by  a  desperate  cheerfulness. 
When  they  took  their  morning  walk  in  the  Luxem- 
bourg Gardens  —  what  time  the  blue-aproned  Jacques 
was  polishing  their  waxed  floors  with  his  legs  for 
broom-handles  —  they  went  into  ecstasies  over  every- 
thing, drawing  each  other's  attention  to  the  sky,  the 
trees,  the  water.  And,  indeed,  of  a  sunshiny  morn- 
ing it  was  heartening  to  sit  by  the  pond  and  watch 
the  wavering  sheet  of  beaten  gold  water,  reflecting  all 
shades  of  green  in  a  restless  shimmer  against  the 
shadowed  grass  around.  Madame  Valiere  always 
had  a  bit  of  dry  bread  to  feed  the  pigeons  withal  —  it 
gave  a  cheerful  sense  of  superfluity,  and  her  manner 
of  sprinkling  the  crumbs  revived  Madame  Depine's 
faded  images  of  a  Princess  scattering  New  Year 
largess. 

But  beneath  all  these  pretences  of  content  lay  a 
hollow  sense  of  desolation.  It  was  not  the  want  of 
butter  nor  the  diminished  meat ;  it  was  the  total  re- 
moval from  life  of  that  intangible  splendour  of  hope 
produced  by  the  lottery  ticket.  Ah  !  every  day 
was  drawn  blank  now.     This   gloom,  this  gnawing 


THE   GREY   WIG  23 

emptiness  at  the  heart,  was  worse  than  either  had 
foreseen  or  now  confessed.  Malicious  Fate,  too,  they 
felt,  would  even  crown  with  the  grand  prix  the 
number  they  would  have  chosen.  But  for  the  pro- 
spective draw  for  the  Wig  —  which  reintroduced  the 
aleatory  —  life  would  scarcely  have  been  bearable. 

Madame  Depine's  sister-in-law's  visit  by  the  June 
excursion  train  was  a  not  unexpected  catastrophe. 
It  only  lasted  a  day,  but  it  put  back  the  Grey  Wig 
by  a  week,  for  Madame  Choucrou  had  to  be  fed  at 
Duval's,  and  Madame  Valiere  magnanimously  in- 
sisted on  being  of  the  party  :  whether  to  run  parallel 
with  her  friend,  or  to  carry  off  the  brown  wig,  she 
alone  knew.  Fortunatelv,  Madame  Choucrou  was 
both  short-sighted  and  colour-blind.  On  the  other 
hand,  she  liked  a.  petit  verre  with  her  coffee,  and  both 
at  a  separate  restaurant.  But  never  had  Madame  Vali- 
ere appeared  to  Madame  Depine's  eyes  more  like  the 
"  Princess,"  more  gay  and  polished  and  debonair,  than 
at  this  little  round  table  on  the  sunlit  Boulevard. 
Little  trills  of  laughter  came  from  the  half-toothless 
gums ;  long  gloved  fingers  toyed  with  the  liqueur 
glass  or  drew  out  the  old-fashioned  watch  to  see  that 
Madame  Choucrou  did  not  miss  her  train  ;  she  spent 
her  sou  royally  on  a  hawked  journal.  When  they 
had  seen  Madame  Choucrou  off,  she  proposed  to  clock 
meat  entirely  for  a  fortnight  so  as  to  regain  the  week. 
Madame  Depine  accepted  in  the  same  heroic  spirit, 
and  even  suggested  the  elimination  of  the  figs :  one 


24  THE    GREY   WIG 

could  lunch  quite  well  on  bread  and  milk,  now  the 
sunshine  was  here.  But  Madame  Valiere  only- 
agreed  to  a  week's  trial  of  this,  for  she  had  a  sweet 
tooth  among  the  few  in  her  gums. 

The  very  next  morning,  as  they  walked  in  the 
Luxembourg  Gardens,  Madame  Depine's  foot  kicked 
against  something.  She  stooped  and  saw  a  shining 
glory  —  a  five-franc  piece  ! 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Madame  Valiere. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Madame  Depine,  covering  the  coin 
with  her  foot.  "  My  bootlace."  And  she  bent  down 
—  to  pick  up  the  coin,  to  fumble  at  her  bootlace,  and 
to  cover  her  furious  blush.  It  was  not  that  she  wished 
to  keep  the  godsend  to  herself,  —  one  saw  on  the 
instant  that  le  bon  Dieu  was  paying  for  Madame 
Choucrou,  —  it  was  an  instantaneous  dread  of  the 
"  Princess's "  quixotic  code  of  honour.  La  Valiere 
was  capable  of  flying  in  the  face  of  Providence,  of 
taking  the  windfall  to  a  bureau  de  police.  As  if  the 
inspector  wouldn't  stick  to  it  himself !  A  purse  — 
yes.  But  a  five-franc  piece,  one  of  a  flock  of 
sheep  ! 

The  treasure-trove  was  added  to  the  heap  of  which 
her  stocking  was  guardian,  and  thus  honestly  divided. 
The  trouble,  however,  was  that,  as  she  dared 
not  inform  the  "  Princess,"  she  could  not  decently 
back  out  of  the  meatless  fortnight.  Providence,  as 
it  turned  out,  was  making  them  gain  a  week.  As  to 
the  figs,  however,  she  confessed  on  the  third  day  that 


THE    GREY    WIG  25 

she  hungered  sore  for  them,  and  Madame  Valiere 
readily  agreed  to  make  this  concession  to  her 
weakness. 

X 

This  little  episode  coloured  for  Madame  Depine 
the  whole  dreary  period  that  remained.  Life  was 
never  again  so  depressingly  definite  ;  though  curiously 
enough  the  "  Princess"  mistook  for  gloom  her  steady 
earthward  glance,  as  they  sauntered  about  the  swel- 
tering city.  With  anxious  solicitude  Madame  Valiere 
would  direct  her  attention  to  sunsets,  to  clouds,  to  the 
rising  moon ;  but  heaven  had  ceased  to  have  attrac- 
tion, except  as  a  place  from  which  five-francs  fell, 
and  as  soon  as  the  "  Princess's  "  eye  was  off  her,  her 
own  sought  the  ground  again.  But  this  imaginary 
need  of  cheering  up  Madame  Depine  kept  Madame 
Valiere  herself  from  collapsing.  At  last,  when  the 
first  red  leaves  began  to  litter  the  Gardens  and  cover 
up  possible  coins,  the  francs  in  the  stocking  ap- 
proached their  century. 

What  a  happy  time  was  that !  The  privations 
were  become  second  nature ;  the  weather  was  still 
fine.  The  morning  Gardens  were  a  glow  of  pink 
and  purple  and  dripping  diamonds,  and  on  some 
of  the  trees  was  the  delicate  green  of  a  second 
blossoming,  like  hope  in  the  heart  of  age.  They 
could  scarcely  refrain  from  betraying  their  exulta- 
tion to  the  Hotel  des  Tourterelles,  from  which  they 


26  THE   GREY    WIG 

had  concealed  their  sufferings.  But  the  polyglot 
population  seething  round  its  malodorous  stairs  and 
tortuous  corridors  remained  ignorant  that  anything 
was  passing  in  the  life  of  these  faded  old  creatures, 
and  even  on  the  day  of  drawing  lots  for  the  Wig  the 
exuberant  hotel  retained  its  imperturbable  activity. 

Not  that  they  really  drew  lots.  That  was  a  figure 
of  speech,  difficult  to  translate  into  facts.  They 
preferred  to  spin  a  coin.  Madame  Depine  was  to 
toss,  the  "  Princess  "  to  cry  pile  on  face.  From  the 
stocking  Madame  Depine  drew,  naturally  enough, 
the  solitary  five-franc  piece.  It  whirled  in  the  air ; 
the  "  Princess "  cried  face.  The  puff-puff  of  the 
steam-tram  sounded  like  the  panting  of  anxious 
Fate.  The  great  coin  fell,  rolled,  balanced  itself 
between  two  destinies,  then  subsided,  pile  upwards. 
The  poor  "  Princess's  "  face  grew  even  longer ;  but  for 
the  life  of  her  Madame  Depine  could  not  make  her 
own  face  other  than  a  round  red  glow,  like  the  sun  in 
a  fog.  In  fact,  she  looked  so  young  at  this  supreme 
moment  that  the  brown  wig  quite  became  her. 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  said  Madame  Valiere,  after 
the  steam-tram  had  become  a  far-away  rumble. 

"  Before  next  summer  we  shall  have  yours  too," 
the  winner  reminded  her  consolingly. 

XI 

They  had  not  waited  till  the  hundred  francs 
were  actually  in  the  stocking.     The  last  few  would 


THE    GREY    WIG  27 

accumulate  while  the  wig  was  making.  As  they  sat 
at  their  joyous  breakfast  the  next  morning,  ere  start- 
ing for  the  hairdresser's,  the  casement  open  to  the 
October  sunshine,  Jacques  brought  up  a  letter  for 
Madame  Valiere — an  infrequent  incident.  Both  old 
women  paled  with  instinctive  distrust  of  life.  And 
as  the  "  Princess "  read  her  letter,  all  the  sympa- 
thetic happiness  died  out  of  her  face. 

"What  is  the  matter,  then?"  breathed  Madame 
Depine. 

The  "  Princess "  recovered  herself.  "  Nothing, 
nothing.     Only  my  nephew  who  is  marrying." 

"  Soon  ? " 

"The  middle  of  next  month." 

"  Then  you  will  need  to  give  presents  !  " 

"  One  gives  a  watch,  a  bagatelle,  and  then — there 
is  time.  It  is  nothing.  How  good  the  coffee  is  this 
morning !  " 

They  had  not  changed  the  name  of  the  brew :  it  is 
not  only  in  religious  evolutions  that  old  names  are  a 
comfort. 

They  walked  to  the  hairdresser's  in  silence.  The 
triumphal  procession  had  become  almost  a  dead 
march.     Only  once  was  the  silence  broken. 

"  I  suppose  they  have  invited  you  down  for  the 
wedding  ?  "  said  Madame  Depine. 

"Yes,"  said  Madame  Valiere. 

They  walked  on. 

The  coiffeur  was  at  his  door,  sunning  his  aproned 


28  THE    GREY    WIG 

stomach,  and  twisting  his  moustache  as  if  it  were  a 
customer's.  Emotion  overcame  Madame  Depine  at 
the  sight  of  him.  She  pushed  Madame  Valiere  into 
the  tobacconist's  instead. 

"  I  have  need  of  a  stamp,"  she  explained,  and 
demanded  one  for  five  centimes.  She  leaned  over 
the  counter  babbling  aimlessly  to  the  proprietor, 
postponing  the  great  moment.  Madame  Valiere 
lost  the  clue  to  her  movements,  felt  her  suddenly 
as  a  stranger.  But  finally  Madame  Depine  drew 
herself  together  and  led  the  way  into  the  coiffeur  s. 
The  proprietor,  who  had  reentered  his  parlour, 
reemerged  gloomily. 

Madame  Valiere  took  the  word.  "  We  are  think- 
ing of  ordering  a  wig." 

"  Cash  in  advance,  of  course,"  said  the  coiffeur. 

"Comment!"  cried  Madame  Valiere,  indignantly. 
"  You  do  not  trust  my  friend  !  " 

"  Madame  Valiere  has  moved  in  the  best  society," 
added  Madame  Depine. 

"  But  you  cannot  expect  me  to  do  two  hundred 
francs  of  work  and  then  be  left  planted  with  the 
wigs ! 

"But  who  said  two  hundred  francs?"  cried 
Madame  Depine.  "  It  is  only  one  wig  that  we  de- 
mand—  to-day  at  least." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  A  hundred  francs, 
then." 

"  And  why  should  we  trust  you  with  one  hundred 


THE    GREY    WIG  29 

francs  ? "  asked  Madame  Depine.  "  You  might  botch 
the  work." 

"  Or  fly  to  Italy,"  added  the  "  Princess." 

In  the  end  it  was  agreed  he  should  have  fifty  down 
and  fifty  on  delivery. 

"  Measure  us,  while  we  are  here,"  said  Madame 
Depine.  "  I  will  bring  you  the  fifty  francs  imme- 
diately." 

"Very  well,"  he  murmured.     "Which  of  you?" 

But  Madame  Valiere  was  already  affectionately 
untying  Madame  Depine's  bonnet-strings.  "  It  is  for 
my  friend,"  she  cried.  "And  let  it  be  as  chic  and 
conv  enable  as  possible  !  " 

He  bowed.    "An  artist  remains  always  an  artist." 

Madame  Depine  removed  her  wig  and  exposed  her 
poor  old  scalp,  with  its  thin,  forlorn  wisps  and  patches 
of  grey  hair,  grotesque,  almost  indecent,  in  its  nudity. 
But  the  coiffeur  measured  it  in  sublime  seriousness, 
putting  his  tape  this  way  and  that  way,  while  Ma- 
dame Valiere's  eyes  danced  in  sympathetic  excite- 
ment. 

"  You  may  as  well  measure  my  friend  too,"  re- 
marked Madame  Depine,  as  she  reassumed  her  glossy 
brown  wig  (which  seemed  propriety  itself  compared 
with  the  bald  cranium). 

"What  an  idea!"  ejaculated  Madame  Valiere. 
"  To  what  end  ?  " 

"  Since  you  are  here,"  returned  Madame  Depine, 
indifferently.    "  You  may  as  well  leave  your  measure- 


30  THE    GREY   WIG 

ments.  Then  when  you  decide  yourself  —  Is  it 
not  so,  monsieur  ?  " 

The  coiffeur,  like  a  good  man  of  business,  eagerly 
endorsed  the  suggestion.     "  Perfectly,  madame." 

"  But  if  one's  head  should  change!  "  said  Madame 
Valiere,  trembling  with  excitement  at  the  vivid  immi- 
nence of  the  visioned  wig. 

"  Souveut  femme  varie,  madame,"  said  the  coiffeur. 
"  But  it  is  the  inside,  not  the  outside  of  the  head." 

"  But  you  said  one  is  not  the  dome  of  the  Inva- 
lides,"  Madame  Valiere  reminded  him. 

"  He  spoke  of  our  old  blocks,"  Madame  Depine  in- 
tervened hastily.     "At  our  age  one  changes  no  more." 

Thus  persuaded,  the  "  Princess "  in  her  turn  de- 
nuded herself  of  her  wealth  of  wig,  and  Madame 
Depine  watched  with  unsmiling  satisfaction  the 
stretchings  of  tape  across  the  ungainly  cranium. 

"  C est  bien,"  she  said.  "I  return  with  your  fifty 
francs  on  the  instant." 

And  having  seen  her  "Princess"  safely  ensconced 
in  the  attic,  she  rifled  the  stocking,  and  returned  to 
the  coiffeur. 

When  she  emerged  from  the  shop,  the  vindictive 
endurance  had  vanished  from  her  face,  and  in  its 
place  reigned  an  angelic  exaltation. 

XII 

Eleven  days  later  Madame  Valiere  and  Madame 
Depine  set  out  on  the  great  expedition  to  the  hair- 


THE    GREY    WIG  31 

dresser's  to  try  on  the  Wig.  The  "  Princess's " 
excitement  was  no  less  tense  than  the  fortunate 
winner's.  Neither  had  slept  a  wink  the  night  be- 
fore, but  the  November  morning  was  keen  and 
bright,  and  supplied  an  excellent  tonic.  They  con- 
versed with  animation  on  the  English  in  Egypt,  and 
Madame  Depine  recalled  the  gallant  death  of  her 
son,  the  chasseur. 

The  coiffeur  saluted  them  amiably.  Yes,  mes- 
dames,  it  was  a  beautiful  morning.  The  wig  was 
quite  ready.     Behold  it  there  —  on  its  block. 

Madame  Valiere's  eyes  turned  thither,  then  grew 
clouded,  and  returned  to  Madame  Depine's  head  and 
thence  back  to  the  Grey  Wig. 

"  It  is  not  this  one  ?  "  she  said  dubiously. 

"Mais,  oui."  Madame  Depine  was  nodding,  a 
great  smile  transfiguring  the  emaciated  orb  of  her 
face.     The  artist's  eyes  twinkled. 

"  But  this  will  not  fit  you,"  Madame  Valiere 
gasped. 

"  It  is  a  little  error,  I  know,"  replied  Madame 
Depine. 

"  But  it  is  a  great  error,"  cried  Madame  Valiere, 
aghast.     And  her  angry  gaze  transfixed  the  coiffeur. 

"  It  is  not  his  fault  —  I  ought  not  to  have  let  him 
measure  you." 

"Ha!  Did  I  not  tell  you  so  ?  "  Triumph  softened 
her  anger.  "  He  has  mixed  up  the  two  measure- 
ments ! " 


32  THE    GREY    WIG 

"  Yes.  I  suspected  as  much  when  I  went  in  to 
inquire  the  other  day ;  but  I  was  afraid  to  tell  you, 
lest  it  shouldn't  even  fit  you." 

"Fit  me!"  breathed  Madame  Valiere. 

"  But  whom  else  ?  "  replied  Madame  Depine,  im- 
patiently, as  she  whipped  off  the  "Princess's"  wig. 
"  If  only  it  fits  you,  one  can  pardon  him.  Let  us 
see.  Stand  still,  ma  chere"  and  with  shaking  hands 
she  seized  the  grey  wig. 

"But  —  but — "  The  "Princess"  was  gasping, 
coughing,  her  ridiculous  scalp  bare. 

"  But  stand  still,  then  !  What  is  the  matter?  Are 
you  a  little  infant  ?  Ah  !  that  is  better.  Look  at 
yourself,  then,  in  the  mirror.  But  it  is  perfect ! " 
"  A  true  Princess,"  she  muttered  beatifically  to  her- 
self. "  Ah,  how  she  will  show  up  the  fruit-vendor's 
daughter !  " 

As  the  "  Princess"  gazed  at  the  majestic  figure  in 
the  mirror,  crowned  with  the  dignity  of  age,  two 
great  tears  trickled  down  her  pendulous  cheeks. 

"  I  shall  be  able  to  go  to  the  wedding,"  she  mur- 
mured chokingly. 

"  The  wedding  !  "  Madame  Depine  opened  her 
eyes.     "  What  wedding  ?  " 

"  My  nephew's,  of  course  !  " 

"  Your  nephew  is  marrying  ?  I  congratulate  you. 
But  why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?  " 

"  I  did  mention  it.     That  day  I  had  a  letter  !  " 

"  Ah  !   I  seem  to  remember.     I  had  not  thought  of 


THE    GREY    WIG  33 

it."  Then  briskly:  "Well,  that  makes  all  for  the 
best  again.  Ah !  I  was  right  not  to  scold  monsieur 
le  coiffeur  too  much,  was  I  not  ?  " 

"  You  are  very  good  to  be  so  patient,"  said  Madame 
Valiere,  with  a  sob  in  her  voice. 

Madame  Depine  shot  her  a  dignified  glance.  "  We 
will  discuss  our  affairs  at  home.  Here  it  only  remains 
to  say  whether  you  are  satisfied  with  the  fit." 

Madame  Valiere  patted  the  wig,  as  much  in  appro- 
bation as  in  adjustment.  "  But  it  fits  me  to  a  mir- 
acle !  " 

"  Then  we  will  pay  our  friend,  and  wish  him  le  bon 
jour."  She  produced  the  fifty  francs  —  two  gold 
pieces,  well  sounding,  for  which  she  had  exchanged 
her  silver  and  copper,  and  two  five-franc  pieces. 
"And  voild,"  she  added,  putting  down  a  franc  for 
pourboire,  "  we  are  very  content  with  the  artist." 

The  "  Princess  "  stared  at  her,  with  a  new  admiration. 

" Mcrci  Men"  said  the  coiffeur,  fervently,  as  he 
counted  the  cash.  "  Would  that  all  customers'  heads 
lent  themselves  so  easily  to  artistic  treatment !  " 

"  And  when  will  my  friend's  wig  be  ready  ? "  said 
the  "  Princess." 

"  Madame  Valiere  !  What  are  you  saying  there  ? 
Monsieur  will  set  to  work  when  I  bring  him  the  fifty 
francs." 

"  Mais  non,  madame.  I  commence  immediately. 
In  a  week  it  shall  be  ready,  and  you  shall  only  pay 
on  delivery." 


34  THE    GREY   WIG 

"  You  are  very  good.  But  I  shall  not  need  it  yet 
—  not  till  the  winter  —  when  the  snows  come,"  said 
Madame  Depine,  vaguely.  " Bon  jour,  monsieur;" 
and,  thrusting  the  old  wig  on  the  new  block,  and 
both  under  her  shawl,  she  dragged  the  "  Princess  " 
out  of  the  shop.  Then,  looking  back  through  the 
door,  "Do  not  lose  the  measurement,  monsieur," 
she  cried.     "  One  of  these  days  !  " 

XIII 

The  grey  wig  soon  showed  its  dark  side.  Its 
possession,  indeed,  enabled  Madame  Valiere  to  loiter 
on  the  more  lighted  stairs,  or  dawdle  in  the  hall  with 
Madame  la  Proprietaire ;  but  Madame  Depine  was 
not  only  debarred  from  these  dignified  domestic  atti- 
tudes, but  found  a  new  awkwardness  in  bearing 
Madame  Valiere  company  in  their  walks  abroad.  In- 
stead of  keeping  each  other  in  countenance  —  dues 
contra  mundum  —  they  might  now  have  served  as  an 
advertisement  for  the  coiffeur  and  the  convenable. 
Before  the  grey  wig  —  after  the  grey  wig. 

Wherefore  Madame  Depine  was  not  so  very  sorry 
when,  after  a  few  weeks  of  this  discomforting  con- 
trast, the  hour  drew  near  of  the  "  Princess's  "  depart- 
ure for  the  family  wedding ;  especially  as  she  was 
only  losing  her  for  two  days.  She  had  insisted,  of 
course,  that  the  savings  for  the  second  wig  were  not 
to  commence  till  the  return,  so  that  Madame  Valiere 
might  carry  with  her  a  present  worthy  of  her  position 


THE    GREY    WIG  35 

and  her  port.  They  had  anxious  consultations  over 
this  present.  Madame  Depine  was  for  a  cheap  but 
showy  article  from  the  Bon  Marche  ;  but  Madame 
Valiere  reminded  her  that  the  price-lists  of  this  enter- 
prising firm  knocked  at  the  doors  of  Tonnerre. 
Something  distinguished  (in  silver)  was  her  own  idea. 
Madame  Depine  frequently  wept  during  these  dis- 
cussions, reminded  of  her  own  wedding.  Oh,  the 
roundabouts  at  Robinson,  and  that  delicious  wedding- 
lunch  up  the  tree!     One  was  gay  then,  my  dear. 

At  last  they  purchased  a  tiny  metal  Louis  Ouinze 
timepiece  for  eleven  francs  seventy-five  centimes, 
congratulating  themselves  on  the  surplus  of  twenty- 
five  centimes  from  their  three  weeks'  savings.  Ma- 
dame Valiere  packed  it  with  her  impedimenta  into 
the  carpet-bag  lent  her  by  Madame  la  Proprietaire. 
She  was  going  by  a  night  train  from  the  Gare  de 
Lyon,  and  sternly  refused  to  let  Madame  Depine  see 
her  off. 

"  And  how  would  you  go  back  —  an  old  woman, 
alone  in  these  dark  November  nights,  with  the  papers 
all  full  of  crimes  of  violence  ?  It  is  not  convenable, 
either." 

Madame  Depine  yielded  to  the  latter  consideration  ; 
but  as  Madame  Valiere,  carrying  the  bulging  carpet- 
bag, was  crying  "  La  porte,  s HI  vous plait"  to  the  con- 
cierge, she  heard  Madame  Depine  come  tearing  and 
puffing  after  her  like  the  steam-tram,  and,  looking  back, 
saw  her  breathlessly  brandishing  her  gold  brooch. 


36  THE    GREY   WIG 

"  Ticns  !  "  she  panted,  fastening  the  "  Princess's  " 
cloak  with  it.     "  That  will  give  thee  an  air." 

"  But  —  it  is  too  valuable.  Thou  must  not."  They 
had  never  "thou'd"  each  other  before,  and  this  en- 
hanced the  tremulousness  of  the  moment. 

"  I  do  not  give  it  thee,"  Madame  Depine  laughed 
through  her  tears.     "  Ait  revoir,  mon  antic." 

"  Adieu,  ma  cJierie  !  I  will  tell  my  dear  ones  of  my 
Paris  comrade."  And  for  the  first  time  their  lips  met, 
and  the  brown  wig  brushed  the  grey. 

XIV 

Madame  Depine  had  two  drearier  days  than  she 
had  foreseen.  She  kept  to  her  own  room,  creeping 
out  only  at  night,  when,  like  all  cats,  all  wigs  are 
grey.  After  an  eternity  of  loneliness  the  third  day 
dawned,  and  she  went  by  pre-arrangement  to  meet 
the  morning  train.  Ah,  how  gaily  gleamed  the 
kiosks  on  the  boulevards  through  the  grey  mist ! 
What  jolly  red  faces  glowed  under  the  cabmen's 
white  hats !  How  blithely  the  birds  sang  in  the 
bird-shops ! 

The  train  was  late.  Her  spirits  fell  as  she  stood 
impatiently  at  the  barrier,  shivering  in  her  thin 
clothes,  and  morbidly  conscious  of  all  those  eyes  on 
her  wig.  At  length  the  train  glided  in  unconcernedly, 
and  shot  out  a  medley  of  passengers.  Her  poor  old 
eyes  strained  towards  them.  They  surged  through 
the  gate  in  animated  masses,  but  Madame  Valiere's 


THE    GREY    WIG  37 

form  did  not  disentangle  itself  from  them,  though 
every  instant  she  expected  it  to  jump  at  her  eyes. 
Her  heart  contracted  painfully  —  there  was  no 
"  Princess."  She  rushed  round  to  another  exit,  then 
outside,  to  the  gates  at  the  end  of  the  drive  ;  she 
peered  into  every  cab  even,  as  it  rumbled  past.  What 
had  happened  ?  She  trudged  home  as  hastily  as  her 
legs  could  bear  her.  No,  Madame  Valiere  had  not 
arrived. 

"  They  have  persuaded  her  to  stay  another  day," 
said  Madame  la  Proprietaire.  "  She  will  come  by 
the  evening  train,  or  she  will  write." 

Madame  Depine  passed  the  evening  at  the  Gare  de 
Lyon,  and  came  home  heavy  of  heart  and  weary  of 
foot.  The  "  Princess  "  might  still  arrive  at  midnight, 
though,  and  Madame  Depine  lay  down  dressed  in 
her  bed,  waiting  for  the  familiar  step  in  the  corridor. 
About  three  o'clock  she  fell  into  a  heavy  doze,  and 
woke  in  broad  day.  She  jumped  to  her  feet,  her 
overwrought  brain  still  heavy  with  the  vapours  of 
sleep,  and  threw  open  her  door. 

"  Ah !  she  has  already  taken  in  her  boots,"  she 
thought  confusedly.  "  I  shall  be  late  for  coffee." 
She  gave  her  perfunctory  knock,  and  turned  the 
door-handle.     But  the  door  would  not  budge. 

"  Jacques !  Jacques !  "  she  cried,  with  a  clammy 
fear  at  her  heart.  The  garqon,  who  was  pottering 
about  with  pails,  opened  the  door  with  his  key.  An 
emptiness  struck  cold  from  the  neat  bed,  the  bare 


38  THE    GREY    WIG 

walls,  the  parted  wardrobe-curtains  that  revealed 
nothing.     She  fled  down  the  stairs,  into  the  bureau. 

"  Madame  Valiere  is  not  returned  ?  "  she  cried. 

Madame  la  Proprietaire  shook  her  head. 

"  And  she  has  not  written  ?  " 

"No  letter  in  her  writing  has  come  —  for  any- 
body." 

"  O  mon  Dieu  !  She  has  been  murdered.  She 
would  go  alone  by  night." 

"  She  owes  me  three  weeks'  rent,"  grimly  returned 
Madame  la  Proprietaire. 

"  What  do  you  insinuate  ?  "  Madame  Depine's  eyes 
flared. 

Madame  la  Proprietaire  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
"  I  am  not  at  my  first  communion.  I  have  grown 
grey  in  the  service  of  lodgers.  And  this  is  how  they 
reward  me."  She  called  Jacques,  who  had  followed 
uneasily  in  Madame  Depine's  wake.  "  Is  there  any- 
thing in  the  room  ?  " 

"  Empty  as  an  egg-shell,  madame." 

"  Not  even  the  miniature  of  her  sister  ?  " 

"  Not  even  the  miniature  of  her  sister." 

"  Of  her  sister  ?  "  repeated  Madame  Depine. 

"  Yes ;  did  I  never  tell  you  of  her  ?  A  hand- 
some creature,  but  she  threw  her  bonnet  over  the 
mills." 

"  But  I  thought  that  was  the  Princess." 

"  The  Princess,  too.  Her  bonnet  will  also  be  found 
lying  there." 


THE    GREY    WIG  39 

"  No,  no ;  I  mean  I  thought  the  portrait  was  the 
Princess's." 

Madame  la  Proprietaire  laughed.  "She  told  you 
so?" 

"  No,  no;  but  —  but  I  imagined  so." 

"  Without  doubt,  she  gave  you  the  idea.  Quelle 
farqeuse  !  I  don't  believe  there  ever  was  a  Princess. 
The  family  was  always  inflated." 

All  Madame  Depine's  world  seemed  toppling. 
Somehow  her  own  mistake  added  to  her  sense  of 
having  been  exploited. 

"  Still,"  said  Madame  la  Proprietaire  with  a  shrug, 
"it  is  only  three  weeks'  rent." 

"  If  you  lose  it,  I  will  pay  !  "  Madame  Depine  had 
an  heroic  burst  of  faith. 

"  As  you  please.  But  I  ought  to  have  been  on  my 
guard.    Where  did  she  take  the  funds  for  a  grey  wig  ?  " 

"  Ah,  the  brown  wig !  '  cried  Madame  Depine, 
joyfully.  "She  must  have  left  that  behind,  and  any 
coiffeur  will  give  you  three  weeks'  rent  for  that 
alone." 

"  We  shall  see,"  replied  Madame  la  Proprietaire, 
ambiguously. 

The  trio  mounted  the  stairs,  and  hunted  high  and 
low,  disturbing  the  peaceful  spider-webs.  They 
peered  under  the  very  bed.  Not  even  the  old  block 
was  to  be  seen.  As  far  as  Madame  Valiere's  own 
chattels  were  concerned,  the  room  was  indeed  "  empty 
as  an  egg-shell." 


40  THE    GREY    WIG 

"She  has  carried  it  away  with  the  three  weeks' 
rent,"  sneered  Madame  la  Proprietaire.  "  In  my  own 
carpet-bag,"  she  added  with  a  terrible  recollection. 

"  She  wished  to  wear  it  at  night  against  the  hard 
back  of  the  carriage,  and  guard  the  other  all  glossy 
for  the  wedding."  Madame  Depine  quavered  plead- 
ingly, but  she  could  not  quite  believe  herself. 

"  The  wedding  had  no  more  existence  than  the 
Princess,"  returned  Madame  la  Proprietaire,  believ- 
ing herself  more  and  more. 

"  Then  she  will  have  cheated  me  out  of  the  grey 
wig  from  the  first,"  cried  Madame  Depine,  involun- 
tarily.    "And  I  who  sacrificed  myself  to  her  !  " 

"  Comment !     It  was  your  wig  ?" 

"No,  no."  She  flushed  and  stammered.  "But 
enfin  —  and  then,  oh,  heaven  !  my  brooch  !  " 

"  She  has  stolen  your  brooch  ?  " 

Great  tears  rolled  down  the  wrinkled,  ashen  cheeks. 
So  this  was  her  reward  for  secretly  instructing  the 
coiffeur  to  make  the  "  Princess's  "  wig  first.  The  Prin- 
cess, indeed  !  Ah,  the  adve'nturess  !  She  felt  chok- 
ing ;  she  shook  her  fist  in  the  air.  Not  even  the 
brooch  to  show  when  her  family  came  up  from  Ton- 
nerre,  to  say  nothing  of  the  wig.  Was  there  a 
God  in  the  world  at  all  ?  Oh,  holy  Mother !  No 
wonder  the  trickstress  would  not  be  escorted  to  the 
station  —  she  never  went  to  the  station.  No  wonder 
she  would  not  sell  the  royal  secrets  to  the  journalist 
—  there  were  none  to  sell.     Oh  !  it  was  all  of  a  piece. 


THE    GREY    WIG  41 

"  If  I  were  you  I  should  go  to  the  bureau  of 
police ! "  said    Madame    la    Proprietaire. 

Yes,  she  would  go ;  the  wretch  should  be  captured, 
should  be  haled  to  gaol.  Even  her  half  of  the  Louis 
Quinze  timepiece  recurred  to  poor  Madame  Depine's 
brain. 

"Add  that  she  has  stolen  my  carpet-bag." 

The  local  bureau  telegraphed  first  to  Tonnerre. 

There  had  been  the  wedding,  but  no  Madame  Val- 
iere.  She  had  accepted  the  invitation,  had  given  notice 
of  her  arrival ;  one  had  awaited  the  midnight  train. 
The  family  was  still  wondering  why  the  rich  aunt  had 
turned  sulky  at  the  last  hour.  But  she  was  always 
an  eccentric ;  a  capricious  and  haughty  personage. 

Poor  Madame  Depine's  recurrent  "  My  wig !  my 
brooch  !  "  reduced  the  official  mind  to  the  same  mud- 
dle as  her  own. 

"  No  doubt  a  sudden  impulse  of  senescent  klepto- 
mania," said  the  superintendent,  sagely,  when  he  had 
noted  down  for  transference  to  headquarters  Madame 
Depine's  verbose  and  vociferous  description  of  the 
traits  and  garments  of  the  runagate.  "  But  we  will 
do  our  best  to  recover  your  brooch  and  your  wig." 
Then,  with  a  spasm  of  supreme  sagacity,  "  Without 
doubt  they  are  in  the  carpet-bag." 

XV 

Madame  Depine  left  the  bureau  and  wandered 
about  in  a  daze.     That  monster  of  ingratitude  !     That 


42  THE    GREY   WIG 

arch-adventuress,  more  vicious  even  than  her  bejew- 
elled sister !  All  the  long  months  of  more  than 
Lenten  rigour  recurred  to  her  self-pitiful  mood,  that 
futile  half-year  of  semi-starvation.  How  Madame 
Valiere  must  have  gorged  on  the  sly,  the  rich  eccen- 
tric !  She  crossed  a  bridge  to  the  He  de  la  Cite,  and 
came  to  the  gargoyled  portals  of  Notre  Dame,  and 
let  herself  be  drawn  through  the  open  door,  and  all 
the  gloom  and  glory  of  the  building  fell  around  her 
like  a  soothing  caress.  She  dropped  before  an  altar 
and  poured  out  her  grief  to  the  Mother  of  Sorrows. 
At  last  she  arose,  and  tottered  up  the  aisle,  and  the 
great  rose-window  glowed  like  the  window  of  heaven. 
She  imagined  her  husband  and  the  dead  children 
looking  through  it.  Probably  they  wondered,  as  they 
gazed  down,  why  her  head  remained  so  young. 

Ah  !  but  she  was  old,  so  very  old.  Surely  God 
would  take  her  soon.  How  should  she  endure  the 
long  years  of  loneliness  and  social  ignominy  ? 

As  she  stumbled  out  of  the  Cathedral,  the  cold, 
hard  day  smote  her  full  in  the  face.  People  stared 
at  her,  and  she  knew  it  was  at  the  brown  wig.  But 
could  they  expect  her  to  starve  herself  for  a  whole 
year  ? 

"  Moil  Dieu  !  Starve  yourselves,  my  good  friends. 
At  my  age,  one  needs  fuel." 

She  escaped  from  them,  and  ran,  muttering,  across 
the  road,  and  almost  into  the  low  grey  shed. 

Ah !    the    Morgue !    Blessed    idea  !      That   should 


THE    GREY    WIG  43 

be  the  end  of  her.  A  moment's  struggle,  and  then 
—  the  rose-window  of  heaven  !  Hell  ?  No,  no  ;  the 
Madonna  would  plead  for  her;  she  who  always 
looked  so  beautiful,  so  convenable. 

She  would  peep  in.  Let  her  see  how  she  would 
look  when  they  found  her.  Would  they  clap  a  grey 
wig  upon  her,  or  expose  her  humiliation  even  in 
death  ? 

"  A-a-a-h !  "  A  long  scream  tore  her  lips  apart. 
There,  behind  the  glass,  in  terrible  waxen  peace,  a 
gash  on  her  forehead,  lay  the  "Princess,"  so  un- 
canny-looking without  any  wig  at  all,  that  she  would 
not  have  recognised  her  but  for  that  moment  of 
measurement  at  the  hairdresser's.  She  fell  sobbing 
before  the  cold  glass  wall  of  the  death-chamber. 
Ah,  God !  Her  first  fear  had  been  right ;  her 
brooch  had  but  added  to  the  murderer's  temptation. 
And  she  had  just  traduced  this  martyred  saint  to 
the  police. 

"  Forgive  me,  ma  che'rie,  forgive  me,"  she  moaned, 
not  even  conscious  that  the  attendant  was  lifting 
her  to  her  feet  with  professional  interest. 

For  in  that  instant  everything  passed  from  her 
but  the  great  yearning  for  love  and  reconciliation, 
and  for  the  first  time  a  grey  wig  seemed  a  petty  and 
futile  aspiration. 


CHASSE-CROISE 


SET    TO    PARTNERS 

"Oh,  look,  dear,  there's  that  poor  Walter  Bassett." 

Amber  Roan  looked  down  from  the  roof  of  the 
drag  at  the  crossing  restless  shuttles,  weaving  with 
feminine  woof  and  masculine  warp  the  multi-coloured 
web  of  Society  in  London's  cricket  Coliseum. 

"  Where  ?  "  she  murmured,  her  eye  wandering  over 
the  little  tract  of  sunlit  green  between  the  coaches 
with  their  rival  Eton  and  Harrow  favours.  Before 
Lady  Chelmer  had  time  to  bend  her  pink  parasol  a 
little  more  definitely,  a  thunder  of  applause  turned 
Amber  Roan's  face  back  towards  the  wickets,  with 
a  piqued  expression. 

"  It's  real  mean,"  she  said.  "  What  have  I  missed 
now  ? " 

"  Only  a  good  catch,"  said  the  Hon.  Tolshunt 
Darcy,  whose  eyes  had  never  faltered  from  her 
face. 

"My,  that's  just  the  one  thing  I've  been  dying 
for,"  she  pouted  self-mockingly. 

"  Poor  Walter  Bassett,"  Lady  Chelmer  repeated. 
"I  knew  his  mother." 

"  Where  ?  "  Amber  asked  again, 

44 


CHASS£-CROIS£  45 

"  In  Huntingdonshire,  before  the  property  went  to 

Algy-" 

"  No,  no,  Lady  Chelmer ;  I  mean,  where  is  poor 
Walter  Whatsaname  now  ?  " 

"Why,  right  here,"  said  Lady  Chelmer,  involun- 
tarily borrowing  from  the  vocabulary  of  her  young 
American  protegee. 

"  Walter  Bassett !  "  said  the  Hon.  Tolshunt,  lan- 
guidly. "  Isn't  that  the  chap  that's  always  getting 
chucked  out  of  Parliament  ?  " 

"  But  his  name  doesn't  sound  Irish  ? "  queried 
Amber. 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Amber!"  cried 
Lady  Chelmer.  "  Why,  he  comes  of  a  good  old 
Huntingdon  family.  If  he  had  been  his  own  elder 
brother,  he'd  have  got  in  long  ago." 

"  Oh,  you  mean  he  never  gets  into  Parliament," 
said  Amber. 

"  Serve  him  right.  I  believe  he's  one  of  those 
independent  nuisances,"  said  the  old  Marquis  of 
Woodham.  "  How  is  one  ever  to  govern  the  coun- 
try, if  every  man  is  a  party  unto  himself  ?  "  He  said 
"one,"  but  only  out  of  modesty;  for  having  once 
accepted  a  minor  post  in  a  Ministry  that  the  Premier 
in  posse  had  not  succeeded  in  forming,  he  had  re- 
tained a  Cabinet  air  ever  since. 

"  Well,  the  beggar  will  scarcely  come  up  at  High- 
mead  for  a  third  licking,"  observed  the  Hon. 
Tolshunt. 


40  CHASS&-CROIS& 

"  No,  poor  Walter,"  said  Lady  Chelmer.  "  He 
thought  he'd  be  sure  to  get  in  this  time,  but  he's 
quite  crushed  now.  Wasn't  it  actually  two  thousand 
votes  less  than  last  time  ?  " 

"  Two  thousand  and  thirty-three,"  replied  Lord 
Woodham,  with  punctilious  inaccuracy. 

Involuntarily  Amber's  eyes  turned  in  search  of 
the  crushed  candidate  whom  she  almost  saw  flattened 
beneath  the  2033  votes,  and  whom  it  would  scarcely 
have  been  a  surprise  to  find  asquat  under  a  carriage, 
humbly  assisting  the  footmen  to  pack  the  dirty 
plates.  But  before  she  had  time  to  decide  which 
of  the  unlively  men,  loitering  round  the  carriages 
or  helping  stout  old  dowagers  up  slim  iron  ladders, 
was  sufficiently  lugubrious  to  be  identified  as  the 
martyr  of  the  ballot-box,  she  was  absorbed  by  a  tall, 
masterful  figure,  whose  face  had  the  radiance  of  ease- 
ful success,  and  whose  hands  were  clapping  at  some 
nuance  of  style  which  had  escaped  the  palms  of  the 
great  circular  mob. 

"  I  can't  see  any  Walter  Bassett,"  she  murmured 
absently. 

"  Why,  you  are  staring  straight  at  him,"  said  Lady 
Chelmer. 

Miss  Roan  did  not  reply,  but  her  face  was  eloquent 
of  her  astonishment,  and  when  her  face  spoke,  it 
was  with  that  vivacity  which  is  the  American  accent 
of  beauty.  What  wonder  if  the  Hon.  Tolshunt 
Darcy  paid  heed  to  it,  although  he  liked  what  it  said 


CHASS&-CROIS&  47 

less  than  the  form  of  expression !  As  he  used  to 
put  it  in  after  days,  "  She  gave  one  look,  and  threw 
herself  away  from  the  top  of  that  drag."  The  more 
literal  truth  was  that  she  drew  Walter  Bassett  up  to 
the  top  of  that  drag. 

Lady  Chelmer  protested  in  vain  that  she  could  not 
halloo  to  the  man. 

"You  knew  his  mother,"  Amber  replied.  "And 
he's  got  no  seat." 

"  Quite  symbolical !  He,  he,  he ! "  and  the  old  Marquis 
chuckled  and  cackled  in  solitary  amusement.  "  Let's 
offer  him  one,"  he  went  on,  half  to  enjoy  the  joke  a  little 
longer,  half  to  utilise  the  opportunity  of  bringing  his 
Ministerial  wisdom  to  bear  upon  this  erratic  young  man. 

"  I  don't  see  where  there's  room,"  said  the  Hon. 
Tolshunt  Darcy,  sulkily. 

"  There's  room  on  the  front  bench,"  cackled  the 
Marquis,  shaking  his  sides. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  you  to  roll  off  for  him,"  said 
Miss  Roan,  who  treated  Ministerial  Marquises  with 
a  contempt  that  bred  in  them  a  delightful  sense  of 
familiarity.  "Tolshunt  can  sit  opposite  me  —  he's 
stared  at  the  cricket  long  enough." 

Tolshunt  blushed  with  apparent  irrelevance.  But 
even  the  prospect  of  staring  at  Amber  more  comfort- 
ably did  not  reconcile  him  to  displacement.  "  It's  so 
awkward  meeting  a  fellow  who's  had  a  tumble,"  he 
grumbled.  "  It's  like  having  to  condole  with  a  man 
fresh  from  a  funeral." 


48  CHASS&-CROIS& 

"  There  doesn't  seem  much  black  about  Walter 
Bassett,"  Amber  laughed.  And  at  this  moment  — 
the  dull  end  of  a  "maiden  over"  —  the  radiant  per- 
sonage in  question  turned  his  head,  and  perceiving 
Lady  Chelmer's  massive  smile,  acknowledged  her 
recognition  with  respectful  superiority,  whereupon 
her  Ladyship  beckoned  him  'with  her  best  parasol 
manner. 

"  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  my  friend,  Miss 
Roan,"  she  said,  as  he  climbed  to  her  side. 

"  I've  been  reading  so  much  about  you,"  said  that 
young  lady,  with  a  sweet  smile.  "  But  you  shouldn't 
be  so  independent,  you  know,  you  really  shouldn't." 

He  smiled  back.  "  I'm  only  independent  till  they 
come  to  my  way  of  thinking." 

Lady  Chelmer  gasped.  "  Then  you  still  have 
hopes  of   Highmead  !  " 

"  I  won  a  moral  victory  there  each  time,  Lady 
Chelmer." 

"How  so,  sir?"  put  in  the  Marquis.  "Your 
opponent  increased  the  Government  majority — " 

"  And  my  reputation.  A  tiresome  twaddler. 
Unfortunately,"  and  he  smiled  again,  "two  moral 
victories  are  as  bad  as  a  defeat.  On  the  other  hand, 
a  defeat  at  a  bye-election  equals  a  victory  at  a  gen- 
eral. You  play  a  solo  —  and  on  your  own  trumpet." 
A  burst  of  cheering  rounded  off  these  remarks.  This 
time  Amber  did  not  even  inquire  what  it  indicated  — 
she  was  almost  content  to  take  it  as  an  endorsement 


CHASS&-CROIS&  49 

of  Walter  Bassett's  epigrams.  But  Lord  Woodham 
eagerly  improved  the  situation.  "  A  fine  stroke 
that,"  he  said,  "  but  a  batsman  outside  a  team  doesn't 
play  the  game." 

"  It  will  be  a  good  time  for  the  country,  Lord 
Woodham,"  Mr.  Bassett  returned  quietly,  "  when 
people  cease  to  regard  the  Parliamentary  session  as 
a  cricket  match,  one  side  trying  to  bowl  over  or 
catch  out  the  other.  But  then  England  always  has 
been  a  sporting  nation." 

"  Ah,  you  allow  some  good  in  the  old  country," 
said  Lady  Chelmer,  pleased.  "  Look  at  the  trouble 
we  all  take  to  come  here  to  encourage  the  dear 
boys ;  "  and  the  words  ended  with  a  tired  sigh. 

"  Yes,  of  course,  that  is  the  side  on  which  they 
need  encouragement,"  he  rejoined  drily.  "  Majuba 
was  lost  on  the  playing-field  of  Lord's." 

There  was  a  moment  of  shocked  surprise.  Lady 
Chelmer,  herself  a  martyr  to  the  religion  of  sport 
thus  blasphemed  —  of  which  she  understood  as  little 
as  of  any  other  religion  —  hastily  tried  to  pour  tea  on 
the  troubled  waters.  But  they  had  been  troubled  too 
deeply.  For  full  eight  minutes  the  top  of  the  drag 
became  a  political  platform  for  Marquis-Ministerial 
denunciations  of  Mr.  Gladstone,  to  a  hail  of  repartee 
from  the  profane  young  man. 

At  the  end  of  those  eight  minutes  —  when  Lady 
Chelmer  was  at  last  able  to  reinsinuate  tea  into  the 
discussion  —  Miss     Amber    Roan    realised    with    a 


50  CHASS&-CROIS& 

sudden  shock  that  she  had  not  "  chipped  in  "  once, 
and  that  "  poor  Walter  Bassett  "  had  commanded  her 
ear  for  all  that  time  without  pouring  into  it  a  single 
compliment,  or,  indeed,  addressing  to  it  any  observa- 
tion whatever.  For  the  first  time  since  her  debut  in 
the  Milwaukee  parlour  at  the  age  of  five,  this  spoiled 
daughter  of  the  dollar  had  lost  sight  of  herself.  As 
they  walked  towards  the  tea-tent,  through  the  throng 
of  clergymen  and  parasols  and  tanned  men  with  field- 
glasses,  and  young  bloods  and  pretty  girls,  she  noted 
uneasily  that  his  eyes  wandered  from  her  to  these 
types  of  English  beauty,  these  flower-faces  under 
witching  hats.  Indeed,  he  had  led  her  out  of  the 
way  to  plough  past  a  row  of  open  carriages. 
"The  shortest  cut,"  he  said,  "is  past  the  prettiest 
woman." 

But  he  had  to  face  her  at  the  tea-table,  where  she 
blocked  his  view  of  the  tables  beyond  and  plied  him 
with  strawberries  and  smiles  under  the  sullen  glances 
of  the  Hon.  Tolshunt  Darcy  and  the  timid  cough  of 
her  chaperon. 

"  I  wonder  you  waste  your  time  on  the  silly  elec- 
tions," she  said.  "We  don't  take  much  stock  in 
Senators   in  America." 

"It's  just  because  M.P.'s  are  at  such  a  discount 
that  I  want  to  get  in.  In  the  realm  of  the  blind 
the  one-eyed  is  a  king." 

"They  must  be  blind  not  to  let  you  in,"  she  an- 
swered with  equal  frankness. 


CHASS£-CROIS£  51 

"  No,  they  see  too  well,  if  you  mean  the  voters. 
They've  got  their  eye  on  the  price  of  their  vote." 

"What!"  she  cried.  "You  can't  buy  votes  in 
England !  " 

"Oh,  can't  you  —  " 

"  But  I'm  sure  I  read  about  it  in  the  English 
histories  —  it  was  all  abolished." 

"  A  good  many  things  were  abolished  by  the 
Decalogue  even  earlier,"  he  replied  grimly.  "  Half 
an  hour  before  the  poll  closed  I  could  have  bought 
a  thousand  votes  at  a  shilling  each." 

"  Well,  that  seems  reasonable  enough,"  said  Lady 
Chelmer. 

"  It  was  beyond  my  pocket." 

"What!  Fifty  pounds?"  cried  Amber,  incredu- 
lously. 

The  blush  that  followed  was  hers,  not  his.  "  But 
what  became  of  the  thousand  votes  ? "  she  asked 
hurriedly. 

He  laughed.  "  Half  an  hour  before  the  poll 
closed  they  had  gone  down  to  sixpence  apiece  — 
like  fish  that  wouldn't  keep." 

"  My  !     And  were  they  all  wasted  ?  " 

"  No.  My  rival  bought  them  up.  Vide  the  news- 
papers—  'the  polling  was  unusually  heavy  towards 
the  close.'  " 

"  Really  !  "  intervened  Lady  Chelmer.  "  Then  at 
that  rate  you  can  unseat  him  for  bribery." 

"At  that  rate  —  or  higher,"  he  replied  drily.     "To 


52  CHASS£-CR0IS£ 

unseat  another  is  even  more  expensive  than  to  seat 
oneself." 

"  Why,  it  seems  all  a  question  of  money,"  said  Miss 
Amber  Roan,  naively. 

II 

CHASSE 

Lady  Chelmer  was  glad  when  the  season  came  to 
an  end  and  the  dancing  mice  had  no  longer  to  spin 
dizzyingly  in  their  gilded  cage.  "  The  Prisoner  of 
Pleasure"  was  Walter  Bassett's  phrase  for  her. 
Even  now  she  was  a  convict  on  circuit.  Some  of 
the  dungeons  were  in  ancient  castles,  from  which 
Bassett  was  barred,  but  all  of  which  opened  to 
Amber's  golden  keys,  though  only  because  Lady 
Chelmer  knew  how  to  turn  them.  He,  however, 
penetrated  the  ducal  doors  through  the  letter- 
box. 

The  Hon.  Tolshunt  and  Lord  Woodham,  in  their 
apprehension  of  the  common  foe,  began  to  find  each 
other  endurable.  If  it  was  politics  that  attracted 
her,  Tolshunt  felt  he  too  could  stoop  to  a  career. 
As  for  the  Marquis,  he  began  to  meditate  resuming 
office.  Both  had  freely  hinted  to  her  Ladyship  that 
to  give  a  millionaire  bride  to  a  man  who  hadn't  a 
penny  savoured  of  Socialism. 

Galled  by  such  terrible  insinuations,  Lady  Chelmer 
had  dared  to  sound  the  girl. 


CHASS£-CROIS£  53 

"  I  love  his  letters,"  gushed  Amber,  bafflingly.  "  He 
writes  such  'cute  things." 

"  He  doesn't  dress  very  well,"  said  Lady  Chelmer, 
feebly  fighting. 

"Oh,  of  course,  he  doesn't  bother  as  much  as 
Tolly,  who  looks  as  if  he  had  been  poured  into  his 
clothes  —  " 

"Yes,  the*mould  of  fashion,"  quoted  Lady  Chel- 
mer, vaguely. 

An  eruption  of  Walter  Bassett  in  the  Press  did  not 
tend  to  allay  her  Ladyship's  alarm,  especially  as 
Amber  began  to  dally  with  the  morning  paper  and 
the  evening. 

Opening  a  new  People's  Library  at  Highmead  — 
in  the  absence  abroad  of  the  successful  candidate  — 
he  had  contrived  to  set  the  newspapers  sneering.  He 
had  told  the  People  that  although  they  might  tempo- 
rarily accept  such  gifts  as  "  Capital's  conscience- 
money,"  yet  it  was  as  much  the  duty  of  the  parish 
to  supply  light  as  to  supply  street-lamps  ;  which  was 
considered  both  ungracious  and  unsound.  The  donor 
he  described  as  "a  millionaire  of  means,"  which  was 
considered  wilfully  paradoxical  by  those  who  did  not 
know  how  great  capitals  are  locked  up  in  industries. 
But  what  worked  up  the  Press  most  was  his  denuncia- 
tion of  modern  journalism,  in  malodorous  comparison 
with  the  literature  this  Library  would  bring  the  Peo- 
ple. "  The  journalist,"  he  said  tersely,  "  is  Satan's 
secretary."     No  shorter  cut  to  notoriety  could  have 


54  CHASS£-CROIS£ 

been  devised,  for  it  was  the  "Silly  Season,"  and 
Satan  found  plenty  of  mischief  for  his  idle  hands 
to  do. 

"  Oh,  you  poor  man ! "  Amber  wrote  Walter.  "  Why 
don't  you  say  you  were  thinking  of  America  —  yellow 
journalism,  and  all  that?  The  yellow  is,  of  course, 
Satan's  sulphur.  You  would  hardly  believe  what  his 
secretaries  have  written  even  of  poor  little  me !  And 
you  should  see  the  pictures  of  '  The  Milwaukee  Mil- 
lionairess '  in  the  Sunday  numbers  !  " 

Walter  Bassett  did  not  reply  regularly  and  punctu- 
ally to  Amber's  letters,  and  it  was  a  novel  sensation 
to  the  jaded  beauty  who  had  often  thrown  aside 
masculine  missives  after  a  glance  at  the  envelope, 
to  find  herself  eagerly  shuffling  her  morning  corre- 
spondence in  the  hope  of  turning  up  a  trump-card. 
A  card,  indeed,  it  often  proved,  though  never  a  post- 
card, and  Amber  meekly  repaid  it  fourfold.  She 
found  it  delicious  to  pour  herself  out  to  him  ;  it  had 
the  pleasure  of  abandonment  without  its  humiliation. 
Verbally,  this  was  the  least  flirtatious  correspondence 
she  had  ever  maintained  with  the  opposite  sex. 

So  when,  at  last,  towards  the  end  of  the  holiday 
season,  the  pair  met  in  the  flesh  at  a  country  house 
(Lady  Chelmer  still  protests  it  was  a  coincidence), 
Walter  Bassett  had  no  apprehension  of  danger,  and 
his  expression  of  pleasure  at  the  coincidence  was  un- 
feigned, for  he  felt  his  correspondence  would  be 
lightened.      In  nothing  did  he  feel  the  want  of  pence 


CHASS&-CROIS&  55 

more  keenly  than  in  his  inability  to  keep  a  secretary 
for  his  public  work.  "  Money  is  time,"  he  used  to 
complain  ;  "  the  millionaire  is  your  only  Methuselah." 

The  house  had  an  old-world  garden,  and  it  was 
here  they  had  their  first  duologue.  Amber  had 
quickly  discovered  that  Walter  was  interested  in  the 
apiaries  that  lay  at  the  foot  of  its  slope,  and  so  he 
found  her  standing  in  poetic  grace  among  the  tall 
sweet-peas,  with  their  whites  and  pinks  and  faint 
purples,  a  basket  of  roses  in  one  hand  and  a  pair  of 
scissors  in  the  other. 

As  he  came  to  her  under  the  quaint  trellised  arch, 
"  I  always  feel  like  a  croquet  ball  going  through  the 
hoop,"  he  said. 

"  But  the  ball  is  always  driven,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  it  has  the  illusion  of  freewill. 
Doubtless  the  pieces  in  that  chess  game,  which  East- 
ern monarchs  are  said  to  play  with  human  figures, 
come  to  think  they  move  of  themselves.  The  knight 
chuckles  as  he  makes  his  tortuous  jump  at  the  queen, 
and  the  bishop  swoops  down  on  the  castle  with 
holy  joy." 

She  came  imperceptibly  closer  to  him.  "  Then 
you  don't  think  any  of  us  move  of  ourselves  ? " 

"  One  or  two  of  us  in  each  generation.  They 
make  the  puppets  dance." 

"You  admire  Bismarck,  I  see." 

"  Yes.  A  pity  he  didn't  emigrate  to  your  country, 
like  so  many  Germans." 


56  CHASS&-CROIS& 

"  Do  you  think  we  need  him  ?  But  he  couldn't 
have  been  President.     You  must  be  born  in  America." 

"  True.     Then  I  shall  remain  on  here." 

"  You're  terrible  ambitious,  Mr.  Bassett." 

"  Yes,  terrible,"  he  repeated  mockingly. 

"Then  come  and  help  me  pick  blackberries,"  she 
said,  and  caught  him  by  his  own  love  of  the  unex- 
pected. They  left  the  formal  garden,  and  came  out 
into  the  rabbit-warren,  and  toiled  up  and  down  hil- 
locks in  search  of  ripe  bushes,  paying,  as  Walter 
said,  "many  pricks  to  the  pint."  And  when  Amber 
urged  him  to  scramble  to  the  back  of  tangled  bushes, 
through  coils  of  bristling  briars,  "  You  were  right," 
he  laughed  ;  "this  is  terrible  ambitious."  The  best 
of  the  blackberries  plucked,  Amber  began  a  new 
campaign  against  mushrooms,  and  had  frequent 
opportunities  to  rebuke  his  clumsiness  in  crumbling 
the  prizes  he  uprooted.  She  knelt  at  his  side  to 
teach  him,  and  once  laid  her  deft  fingers  instructively 
upon  his. 

And  just  at  that  moment  he  irritatingly  discovered 
a  dead  mole,  and  fell  to  philosophising  upon  it  and 
its  soft,  velvet,  dainty  skin  —  as  if  a  girl's  fingers 
were  not  softer  and  daintier !  "  Look  at  its  poor 
little  pale-red  mouth,"  he  went  on,  "  gaspingly  open, 
as  in  surprise  at  the  strange  great  forces  that  had 
made  and  killed  it." 

"I  dare  say  it  had  a  good  time,"  said  Amber, 
pettishly. 


CHASS&-CROIS&  57 

After  the  harvest  had  been  carried  indoors  they 
scarcely  exchanged  a  word  till  she  found  him  watch- 
ing the  bees  the  next  morning. 

"Are  you  interested  in  bees?"  she  inquired  in 
tones  of  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  They  are  the  most  striking  ex- 
ample of  Nature's  Bismarckism  — her  habit  of  using 
her  creatures  to  work  her  will  through  their  own. 
Sic  vos  11011  vobis." 

"  I  learnt  enough  Latin  at  College  to  understand 
that,"  she  said;  "but  I  don't  see  how  one  finds  out 
anything  by  just  watching  them  hover  over  their 
hives.  I've  never  even  been  able  to  find  the  queen 
bee.  Won't  you  come  and  see  what  beautiful  woods 
there  are  behind  the  house  ?  Lady  Chelmer  is  walk- 
ing there,  and  I  ought  to  be  joining  her." 

"  You  ought  to  be  taking  her  an  umbrella,"  he 
said  coldly.  Amber  looked  up  at  the  sky.  Had  it 
been  blue,  she  would  have  felt  it  grey.  As  it  was 
grey,  she  felt  it  black. 

"  Oh,  if  you're  afraid  of  a  drop  of  rain  — "  And 
Amber  walked  on  witheringly.  It  was  a  clever 
move. 

Walter  followed  in  silence.  Amber  did  not  be- 
come aware  of  him  till  she  was  in  the  middle  of  an 
embryonic  footpath  through  tall  bracken  that  made 
way,  courtseying,  for  the  rare  pedestrian. 

"Oh!  "  She  gave  a  little  scream.  "  I  thought  you 
were  studying  the  bees  —  or  the  moles." 


68  CHASS£-CKOIS£ 

"  I  have  only  been  studying  your  graceful  back." 

"How  mean!  Behind  my  back!"  She  laughed, 
pleased.  "  I  hope  you  haven't  discovered  anything 
Bismarckian  about  my  back." 

"  Only  in  the  sense  that  I  followed  it,  and  must  fol- 
low—  till  the  path  widens." 

"Ah,  how  you  must  hate  following  —  you,  so  ter- 
rible ambitious." 

"  The  path  will  widen,"  he  said  composedly. 

She  planted  her  feet  firm  on  Mother  Earth  —  as 
though  it  were  literally  her  own  mother  —  and  turned 
a  mocking  head  over  a  tantalising  shoulder.  "  I 
shall  stay  still  right  here." 

He  smiled  maliciously.  "And  I,  too;  I  follow 
you  no  farther." 

"Oh,  you  are  just  too  'cute,"  she  said  with  a  laugh 
of  vexation  and  pleasure.  "You  make  me  go  on  just 
to  make  you  follow  ;  but  it  is  really  you  that  make  me 
lead.    That's  what  you  mean  by  Bismarckism,  isn't  it?" 

"  You  put  it  beautifully." 

She  swung  round  to  face  him.  "  Is  there  nothing 
you  admire  but  Force  ?  " 

"  Not  Force  —  Power  !  " 

"  What's  the  difference  ?  " 

"  Force  is  blind." 

"So  is  love,"  she  said.  "Do  you  scorn  that?" 
And  her  smile  was  daring  and  dazzling. 

Ere  he  could  reply  Nature  outdid  her  in  dazzle- 
ment,  and  superadded  a  crash  of  thunder. 


CHA  SS£-  CR  OIS£  59 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  as  though  there  had  been  no  inter- 
ruption. "  I  scorn  all  that  is  blind  —  even  this  storm 
that  may  strike  you  and  me.  Ah!  the  rain,"  as  the 
great  drops  began  to  fall  "Poor  Lady  Chelmer  — 
without  an  umbrella." 

"  We  can  shelter  by  these  shrubs."  In  an  instant 
she  was  crouching  amid  the  ferns  on  a  carpet  of 
autumn  leaves,  making  space  for  him  beside  her. 

"  Thank  you  —  I  will  stand,"  he  said  coldly.  "  But 
I  don't  know  if  you're  aware  these  are  oak-shrubs." 

"What  of  it?" 

"  I  was  only  thinking  of  the  Swiss  proverb  about 
lightning,  '  Vor  den  Eichen  sollst  du  weichen.'  We 
ought  to  make  for  the  beeches." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  leave  my  umbrella.  I  am  sorrv 
you  won't  accept  a  bit  of  it."  And  she  bent  the  tall 
ferns  invitingly  towards  him. 

"  I  don't  like  cowering  even  before  the  rain,"  he 
laughed.  "  How  it  brings  out  the  beautiful  earthy 
smell." 

"  One  enjoys  the  beautiful  earthy  smell  the  better 
for  being  nearer  to  the  earth." 

He  did  not  reply. 

"  Oh,  you  dear  fool,"  she  thought.  Hadn't  she 
had  heaps  of  Power  from  childhood  —  over  her  stern 
old  father,  over  her  weakling  mother,  over  her  govern- 
esses, and  later  over  the  whole  tribe  of  "the  boys," 
and  now  in  Europe  over  Marquises  and  Honourables 
—  and  could  it  all  compare  in  intensity  to  this  delicious, 


60  CHASS&-CROIS& 

poignant  sense  of  being  caught  up  into  a  masterful 
personality !  No,  not  Power  but  Powerlessness  was 
life's  central  reality ;  not  to  turn  with  iron  hand  the 
great  wheels  of  Fate,  but  to  faint  at  a  dear  touch,  to 
be  sucked  up  as  a  moth  in  the  flame.  And  for  him, 
too,  it  were  surely  as  sweet  to  leave  this  strenuous 
quest  for  dominance,  or  to  be  content  with  dominat- 
ing her  alone.  Oh,  she  would  bring  him  to  clear 
vision,  to  live  for  nothing  but  her,  even  as  she  asked 
for  nothing  but  him. 

The  harsh  scream  of  a  bluejay  struck  a  discord 
through  her  reverie.  She  remembered  that  he  had 
yet  to  be  won. 

"  But  didn't  you  tell  me  people  can't  get  power 
without  money  ? "  she  said,  forgetting  the  hiatus  in 
the  conversation. 

"  Nor  with  it  generally,"  he  replied,  without  sur- 
prise. "  Money  is  but  a  lever.  You  cannot  move 
the  earth  unless  you  have  force  and  fulcrum,  too." 

"  But  I  guess  a  man  like  you  must  get  real  mad  to 
see  so  many  levers  lying  about  idle." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  get  on  without  a  lever,  like  primitive 
man.     I  have  muscles." 

"  But  it  seems  too  bad  not  to  be  able  to  afford 
machinery." 

"  I  shall  be  hand-made." 

"  Yes,  and  by  your  own  hand.  But  won't  it  be 
slow  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  sure." 


CHA  SS&-  CR  OIS£  61 

Every  one  of  his  speeches  rang  like  the  stroke  of 
a  hammer.     Yes,  indeed  he  had  muscles. 

"  But  how  much  surer  with  money  !  You  ought 
to  turn  your  career  into  a  company.  Surely  it  would 
pay  a  dividend  to  its  promoters." 

"  The  directors  would  interfere." 

"  You  could  be  chairman  —  with  a  veto." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  The  rain  is  dripping  through 
your  umbrella.  Don't  you  think  we  might  run  to  the 
House  ? " 

"  It's  only  an  old  hat."  It  was  fresh  from  Paris, 
broad-brimmed,  beautiful,  and  bewitching.  "  Why 
don't  you  find"  —  she  smiled  nervously — "a  mill- 
ionaire of  means  ?" 

"  And  what  would  be  his  reward  ?  " 

"  Just  Virtue's.  Won't  you  be  a  light  to  England  ? 
And  isn't  it  the  duty  of  parishes  and  millionaires  to 
supply  light?"  She  was  plucking  a  fern-leaf  to 
pieces. 

"  Millionaires'  minds  don't  run  that  way." 

"  Not  male  millionaires,  perhaps,"  she  said,  turning 
her  face  from  him  so  jerkily  that  she  shook  the  oak- 
shrub  and  it  became  a  shower-bath. 

He  looked  at  her,  slightly  startled.  It  was  the 
first  emotion  she  had  ever  provoked  in  him,  and  her 
heart  beat  faster. 

"  I  really  do  think  it  is  giving  over  now,"  he  said, 
gazing  at  her  sopping  hat. 

'Twas  as  if  he  had   shaken  the  shrub  again  and 


62  CHASSE-CROIS& 

drenched  her  with  cold  water.  He  was  mocking  her, 
her  and  her  dollars  and  her  love. 

"  It  is  quite  over,"  she  said  savagely,  springing  up, 
and  growing  even  angrier  when  she  found  the  rain 
had  really  stopped,  so  that  her  indignation  sounded 
only  like  acquiescence.  She  strode  ahead  of  him, 
silent,  through  the  wet  bracken,  her  frock  growing  a 
limp  rag  as  it  brushed  aside  the  glistening  ferns. 

As  she  struck  the  broader  path  to  the  house,  the 
cackling  laugh  of  a  goat  chained  to  a  roadside  log 
followed  her  cynically.  Where  had  she  heard  this 
bleat  before  ?  Ah,  yes, .  from  the  Marquis  of 
Woodham. 

Ill 

BALANCEZ 

Walter  Bassett  had  spoken  truly.  He  did  not 
admire  love  —  that  blind  force.  Women  seemed  to 
him  delightfully  aesthetic  objects  —  to  be  kept  at  a 
distance,  however  closely  one  embraced  them.  They 
were  unreasoning  beings  at  the  best,  even  when  un- 
biassed by  that  supreme  prejudice  —  love. 

It  was  not  his  conception  of  the  strong  man  that 
he  must  needs  become  as  water  at  some  woman's 
touch  and  go  dancing  and  babbling  like  a  sylvan 
brook.  Women  were  the  light  of  life  —  he  was 
willing  enough  to  admit  it,  but  one  must  be  able  to 
switch  the  light  on  and  off  at  will.  All  these  were 
reasons    for    not    falling    in    love  —  they    were    not 


CHASSE-CROIS&  63 

reasons  for  not  marrying.  And  so,  Amber  being 
determined  to  marry  him,  there  was  really  less  diffi- 
culty than  if  it  had  been  necessary  for  him  to  fall  in 
love  with  her. 

It  took,  however,  many  letters  and  interviews,  full 
of  the  subtlest  comedy,  infinite  advancing  and  retir- 
ing, and  recrossing  and  bowing,  and  courtesying  and 
facing  and  half-turning,  before  this  leap-year  dance 
could  end  in  the  solemn  Wedding  March. 

"You  know,"  she  said  once,  "how  I  should  love 
the  fun  of  seeing  you  plough  your  way  through  all 
the  mediocrities." 

"  That  is  the  means,  not  the  end,"  he  reminded 
her,  rebukingly.  "  One  only  wants  the  world  to 
swallow  one's  pills  for  the  world's  sake." 

"  I  don't  believe  you,"  she  said  frankly.  "  Else 
you'd  move  mountains  to  get  the  money  for  the  pills, 
not  turn  up  your  nose  at  the  mountain  when  it  comes 
to  you." 

He  laughed  heartily.  "What  a  delightful  confu- 
sion of  metaphors  !  I'm  sure  you've  got  Irish  blood 
somewhere." 

"  Of  course  I  have.  Did  I  never  tell  you  I  am 
descended  from  the  kings  of  Ireland?" 

He  took  off  his  hat  mockingly.  "  I  salute  Miss 
Brian  Boru." 

"You're  an  awfully  good  fellow,"  he  told  her  on  a 
later  occasion.  "I  almost  believe  I'd  take  your 
money  if  you  were  not  a  woman." 


64  CHASS£-CROIS£ 

"  If  I  were  not  a  woman  I  should  not  offer  it  to 
you  —  I  should  want  a  career  of  my  own." 

"  And  my  career  would  content  you  ? "  he  asked, 
touched. 

"Absolutely,"  she  lied.  "The  interest  I  should  take 
in  it — wouldn't  that  be  sufficient  interest  on  the  loan  ? " 

"  There  is  one  thing  you  have  taught  me,"  he  said 
slowly —  "how  conventional  I  am  !  But  every  preju- 
dice in  me  shrinks  from  your  proposition,  much  as  I 
admire  your  manliness." 

"  Perhaps  it  could  be  put  on  more  conventional 
lines — superficially,"  she  suggested  in  a  letter  that 
harked  back  to  this  conversation.  "  One  might  go 
through  conventional  forms.  That  adorable  Disraeli 
—  I  have  just  been  reading  his  letters.  How  right 
he  was  not  to  marry  for  love!" 

The  penultimate  stage  of  the  pre-nuptial  comedy 
was  reached  in  the  lobby  of  the  Opera,  while  Society 
was  squeezing  to  its  carriage.  It  was  after  the 
RJieingold,  and  poor  Lady  Chelmer  could  hardly 
keep  her  eyes  open,  and  actually  dozed  off  as  she 
leaned  against  a  wall,  in  patient  martyrdom.  Walter 
Bassett  had  been  specially  irritating,  for  he  had  not 
come  up  to  the  box  once,  and  everybody  knows  (as 
the  Hon.  Tolshunt  had  said,  with  unwonted  brill- 
iance) the  RJieingold  is  in  heavy  bars. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  admired  Wagner  so  much," 
Amber  said  scathingly,  as  Walter  pushed  through  the 
grooms.     "  Such  a  rapt  devotee  !  " 


CHASS&-CROIS&  65 

"Wagner  is  the  greatest  man  of  the  century.  He 
alone  has  been  able  to  change  London's  dinner-hour." 

Amber  could  not  help  smiling.  "  Poor  Lady  Chel- 
mer!  "  she  said,  nodding  towards  the  drowsing  dowa- 
ger.    "  Since  half-past  six  !  " 

"Is  that  our  carriage?"  said  the  "Prisoner  of 
Pleasure,"  opening  her  eyes. 

"No,  dear  —  I  guess  we  are  some  fifty  behind. 
Tolly  and  the  Marquis  are  watching  from  the  pave- 
ment." 

The  poor  lady  sighed  and  went  to  sleep  again. 

"  Behold  the  compensations  of  poverty,"  observed 
Walter  Bassett.  "  The  gallery-folk  have  to  wait  and 
squeeze  before  the  opera;  the  carriage-folk  after  the 
opera." 

"  You  forget  the  places  they  occupy  during  the 
opera.  Poor  Wagner !  What  a  fight !  I  wish  I 
could  have  helped  his  career."  And  Amber  set  a 
wistful  smile  in  the  becoming  frame  of  her  white 
hood. 

"  The  form  of  the  career  appears  to  be  indifferent 
to  you,"  he  said,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"As  indifferent  as  the  man,"  she  replied,  meeting 
his  eyes  calmly. 

The  faint  scent  of  her  hair  mingled  with  his  pleas- 
urable sense  of  her  frank  originality.  For  the  first 
time  the  bargain  really  appealed  to  him.  He  could 
not  but  see  that  she  was  easily  the  fairest  of  that 
crush  of  fair  women,  and  to  have  her  prostrated  at 


66  CHA  SS£-  CR  0/S£ 

the  foot  of  his  career  was  more  subtly  delicious  than 
to  have  her  surrender  to  his  person.  The  ball  was  at 
his  foot  in  surely  the  most  tempting  form  that  a  ball 
could  take.  And  the  fact  that  he  must  leave  her 
hurriedly  to  write  the  musical  criticism  that  was  the 
price  of  his  stall,  was  not  calculated  to  diminish  his 
appreciation  of  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  which 
his  temptress  was  showing  him  from  her  high  moun- 
tain. 

"Alas !  I  must  go  and  write  a  notice,"  he  sighed. 

"  Satan's  Secretary  ?  "   she  queried  mischievously. 

He  started.  Had  he  not  been  just  thinking  of  her 
as  a  Satan  in  skirts  ? 

"En  attendant  that  I  become  Satan's  master,"  he 
replied  ambiguously,  as  he  raised  his  hat. 

"  Oh,  to  drive  off  with  him  into  the  peace  and  soli- 
tude of  Love  —  away  from  the  grinding  paths  of 
ambition,"  thought  Amber,  when  the  horses  pranced 
up. 

IV 

CROISE 

"  Women,  not  measures,"  said  the  reigning  wit 
anent  the  administration  which  Amber's  Salon  held 
together,  and  in  which  her  husband  occupied  a  posi- 
tion quite  disproportionate  to  his  nominal  office,  and 
still  more  so  to  the  almost  unparalleled  brevity  of  his 
career  as  a  private  member. 


CHASSA-CROISA  67 

Few,  indeed,  were  the  recalcitrants  who  could  resist 
Amber's  smiles,  or  her  still  more  seductive  sulkiness. 
Walter  Bassett's  many  enemies  declared  that  the 
young  Cabinet  Minister  owed  his  career  entirely  to 
his  wife.  His  admirers  indignantly  pointed  out  that 
he  had  represented  Highmead  for  two  sessions  before 
he  met  Miss  Roan.  The  germ  of  truth  in  this  was 
that  he  had  stipulated  to  himself  that  he  would  not 
accept  the  contract  unless  Amber,  too,  must  admit 
"  Value  received,"  and  in  contributing  a  career  already 
self-launched,  and  a  good  old  Huntingdon  name,  his 
pride  was  satisfied.  This,  however,  had  wasted  a  year 
or  so,  while  the  Government  was  getting  itself  turned 
out,  and  it  never  entered  his  brain  that  his  crushing 
victory  at  the  General  Election  could  owe  anything  to 
a  corner  in  votes  —  at  five  dollars  a  head  —  secretly 
made  by  a  fair  American  financier. 

It  was  in  the  thick  of  the  season,  and  Amber  had 
just  said  good-bye  to  the  Bishop,  the  last  of  her  din- 
ner-guests. "  I  always  say  grace  when  the  church 
goes,"  she  laughed,  as  she  turned  to  her  budget  of 
unread  correspondence  and  shuffled  the  letters,  as  in 
the  old  days,  when  she  hoped  to  draw  a  letter  of 
Walter's.  But  her  method  had  become  more  scien- 
tific. Recognising  the  writers  by  their  crests  or  mot- 
toes, she  would  arrange  the  letters  in  order  of  prece- 
dence, alleging  it  was  to  keep  her  hand  in,  otherwise 
she  would  always  be  making  the  most  horrible  mis- 
takes in  "your  Mediaeval  British  etiquette." 


68  CHASSE-CROIS& 

"Who  goes  first  to-night?"  said  her  husband, 
watching  her  movements  from  a  voluptuous  arm- 
chair. 

"  Only  Lady  Chelmer,"  Amber  yawned,  as  she 
broke  the  seal. 

"  Didn't  I  see  the  scrawl  of  the  Honourable  Tolly?" 

"  Yes,  poor  dear.  I  do  so  want  to  know  if  he  is 
happy  in  British  Honduras.  But  he  must  take  his 
turn." 

"  If  he  had  taken  his  turn,"  Walter  laughed,  "  he 
never  would  have  got  the  appointment  there." 

"  No,  poor  dear  ;  it  was  very  good  of  you." 

"  Of  me  ?  "  Walter's  tone  was  even  more  amused. 
His  eyes  roved  round  the  vast  drawing-room,  as  if 
with  the  thought  that  he  had  as  little  to  do  with  its 
dignified  grandeur.  Then  his  gaze  rested  once  more 
on  his  wife ;  she  seemed  a  delicious  harmony  of  silks 
and  flowers  and  creamy  flesh-tones. 

"  Mrs.  Bassett,"  he  said  softly,  lingering  on  the 
proprietorial  term. 

"Yes,  Walter,"  she  said,  not  looking  up  from  her 
letter. 

"  Do  you  realise  this  is  the  first  time  we  have  been 
alone  together  this  month  ?  " 

"  No  ?     Really  ?  "     She  glanced  up  absently. 

"  Never  mind  that  muddle-headed  old  Chelmer.  I 
dare  say  she  only  wants  another  hundred  or  two." 
He  came  over,  took  the  letter  and  her  hand  with  it. 
"  I  have  a  great  secret  to  tell  you." 


CHASS&-CROIS&  «9 

Now  he  had  captured  her  attention  as  well  as  her 
hand.  Her  eyes  sparkled.  "  A  Cabinet  Secret  ?  " 
she  said. 

"Yes.  At  this  moment  every  newspaper  office  is 
in  a  fever  —  to-morrow  all  England  will  be  ringing 
with  the  news.     It  is  a  thunderbolt." 

She  started  up,  snatching  her  hand  away,  every 
nerve  a-quiver  with  excitement.  "  And  you  kept  this 
from  me  all  through  dinner? " 

"  I  hadn't  a  chance,  darling  —  I  came  straight  from 
the  scrimmage." 

"  You  won't  gloss  it  over  by  calling  me  novel  names. 
I  hate  stale  thunderbolts.  You  might  have  breathed 
a  word  in  my  ear." 

"  I  shall  make  amends  by  beginning  with  the  part 
that  is  only  for  your  ear.  Do  you  know  what  next 
Monday  is  ?  " 

"  The  day  you  address  your  constituents,  of  course. 
Oh,  I  see,  this  thunderbolt  is  going  to  change  your 
speech." 

"  Is  going  to  change  my  speech  altogether.  Next 
Monday  is  the  seventh  anniversary  of  our  wedding." 

"  Is  it  ?  But  what  has  that  to  do  with  your  speech 
at  Highmead  ? " 

"  Everything."  He  smiled  mysteriously,  then  went 
on  softly,  "  Amber,  do  you  remember  our  honey- 
moon ? " 

She  smiled  faintly.  "  Oh,  I  haven't  quite  for- 
gotten." 


70  CHASS£-CROIS£ 

"  If  you  had  quite  forgotten  the  misery  of  it,  I 
should  be  glad." 

"  I  have  quite  forgotten."    ' 

"  You  are  kinder  than  I  deserve.  But  I  was  so 
startled  to  find  my  career  was  less  to  you  than  a  kiss 
that  I  was  more  churlish  than  I  need  have  been.  I 
even  wished  that  you  might  have  a  child,  so  that  you 
might  be  taken  up  with  it  instead  of  with  me." 

She  blushed.  "  Yes,  I  dare  say  I  showed  my  hand 
clumsily  as  soon  as  it  held  all  the  aces." 

"  Ah,  Amber,  you  were  an  angel  and  I  was  a  beast. 
How  gallantly  you  swallowed  your  disappointment  in 
your  bargain,  how  loyally  you  worked  heart  and  soul 
that  I  might  gain  my  one  ideal  —  Power!  " 

"  It  was  a  labour  of  love,"  she  said  deprecatingly. 

"  My  noble  Amber.  But  did  you  think,  selfishly 
engrossed  though  I  have  been  with  the  Fight  for 
Power,  that  this  love-labour  of  yours  was  lost  on  me  ? 
No,  'terrible  ambitious'  as  I  was,  I  could  still  see  I 
got  the  blackberries  and  you  little  more  than  the 
scratches,  and  the  less  you  began  to  press  your  claim 
upon  my  heart,  the  more  my  heart  was  opening  out 
with  an  answering  passion.  I  began  to  watch  the 
play  of  your  eyes,  the  shimmer  of  light  across  your 
cheek,  the  roguish  pout  of  your  lips,  the  lock  that 
strayed  across  your  temple  —  as  it  is  straying 
now." 

She  pushed  it  back  impatiently.  "  But  what  has 
all  this  to  do  with  the  Cabinet  Secret  ?  " 


CHASS&-CROIS&  71 

"  Patience,  darling !  How  much  nicer  to  listen  to 
you  than  to  the  Opposition." 

"  I  shall  be  in  the  Opposition  unless  you  get  along 
faster." 

"That  is  what  I  want  —  your  face  opposite  me 
always,  instead  of  bald-headed  babblers.  Ah,  if  you 
knew  how  often,  of  late,  it  has  floated  before  me  in 
the  House,  reducing  historic  wrangles  to  the  rocking 
of  children's  boats  in  stormy  ponds,  accentuating  the 
ponderous  futility."  He  took  her  hand  again,  and  a 
great  joy  filled  him  as  he  felt  its  gentle  responsive 
pressure. 

"  Ponderous,  perhaps,"  she  said,  smiling  faintly ; 
"  but  not  futile,  Walter." 

"  Futile,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  dearest.  Ah, 
you  are  right.  Love  is  the  only  reality  —  everything 
else  a  game  played  with  counters.  What  are  our 
winnings  ?  A  few  cheers  drowned  in  the  roar  that 
greets  the  winning  jockey,  a  few  leading  articles,  stale 
as  yesterday's  newspaper." 

"  But  the  good  to  the  masses —  "  she  reminded  him. 

"  Don't  mock  me  with  my  own  phrases,  darling. 
The  masses  have  done  me  more  good  than  I  can  ever 
do  them.  Next  Monday,  dear  Amber  Roan,  we'll  try 
our  honeymoon  over  again."  And  his  lips  sought 
hers. 

She  drew  back.  "  Yes,  yes,  after  the  Speech. 
But  now  —  the  Secret !  " 

"  There  will  be  no  speech  —  that  is  the  secret." 


72  CHASS£-CROIS£ 

She  drew  away  from  him  altogether.  "  No 
speech  !  "  she  gasped. 

"  None  save  to  your  adorable  ear  —  and  the  moon- 
lit waters.     Woodham  has  lent  us  his  yacht  —  " 

"  In  the  middle  of  a  Cabinet  Crisis  ?  " 

"  Which  concerns  me  less  than  anybody."  And 
he  beamed  happily. 

"  Less  than  anybody  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"  Yes  —  since  it  is  my  resignation  that  makes  the 
crisis." 

She  fell  back  into  a  chair,  white  and  trembling. 
"You  have  resigned  !  " 

"  For  ever.  And  now,  hey  for  the  great  round, 
wonderful  world  !  Don't  you  hear  our  keel  cutting 
the  shimmering  waters  ?  " 

"No,"  she  said  savagely.  "I  hear  only  Wood- 
ham's  mocking  laughter !  .  .  .  And  it  sounds  like  a 
goat  bleating." 

"  Darling  !  "  he  cried  in  amaze. 

"  I  told  you  not  to  '  darling  '  me.  How  dared  you 
change  our  lives  without  a  word  of  consultation  ?  " 

"  Amber  !  "  His  voice  was  pained  now.  "  I  pre- 
pared a  surprise  for  the  anniversary  of  our  wedding. 
One  can't  consult  about  surprises." 

"  Keep  your  quibbles  for  the  House !  But  per- 
haps there  is  no  House,  either." 

"  Naturally.  I  have  done  with  it  all.  I  have 
written  for  the  Chiltern  Hundreds." 

"  You  are  mad,  Walter.    You  must  take  it  all  back." 


CHASS£-CROIS£  73 

"  I  can't,  Amber.  I  have  quarrelled  hopelessly 
with  the  Party.  The  Prime  Minister  will  never  for- 
give what  I  said  at  the  Council  to-day.  The  luxury 
of  speaking  one's  mind  is  expensive.  I  ought  never 
to  have  joined  any  Party.  I  am  only  fit  to  be  Inde- 
pendent." 

"  Independence  leads  nowhere."  She  rose  angrily. 
"  And  this  is  to  be  the  end  of  your  Career !  The 
Career  you  married  me  for  !  " 

"  I  did  wrong,  Amber.  But  before  one  finds  the 
true  God,  one  worships  idols." 

"  And  what  is  the  true  God,  pray  ?  " 

"  The  one  whose  angel  and  minister  you  have 
always  been,  Amber  " —  he  lowered  his  voice  rever- 
ently—  "  Love." 

"Love  !  "  Her  voice  was  bitter.  "  Any  bench  in 
the  Park,  any  alley  in  Highmead,  swarms  with  Love." 
'Twas  as  if  Caesar  had  skipped  from  his  imperial 
chariot  to  a  sociable. 

All  her  childish  passion  for  directing  the  life  of 
the  household,  all  her  girlish  relish  in  keeping  lovers 
in  leading  strings,  all  that  unconscious  love  of  Power 
which — inversely  —  had  attracted  her  to  Walter 
Bassett,  and  which  had  found  so  delightful  a  scope  in 
her  political  activities,  leapt  —  now  that  her  Salon 
was  threatened  with  extinction  —  into  agonised  con- 
sciousness of  itself. 

Through  this  brilliant  husband  of  hers,  she  had 
touched  the  destinies  of  England,  pulled  the  strings 


74  CHASS&-CROIS& 

of  Empire.  Oh,  the  intoxication  of  the  fight  —  the 
fight  for  which  she  had  seconded  and  sponged  him ! 
Oh,  the  rapture  of  intriguing  against  his  enemies  — 
himself  included  —  the  feminine  triumph  of  manag- 
ing Goodman  Waverer  or  Badman  Badgerer  ! 

And  now  —  oh,  she  could  no  longer  control  her 
sobs  ! 

He  tried  to  soothe  her,  to  caress  her,  but  she  re- 
pulsed him. 

"  Go  to  your  yacht  —  to  your  miserable  shimmering 
waters.  I  shall  spend  my  honeymoon  here  alone.  .  .  . 
You  discovered  I  was  Irish." 


THE   WOMAN    BEATER 


I 


She  came  "to  meet  John  Lefolle,"  but  John 
Lefolle  did  not  know  he  was  to  meet  Winifred 
Glamorys.  He  did  not  even  know  he  was  himself 
the  meeting-point  of  all  the  brilliant  and  beautiful 
persons,  assembled  in  the  publisher's  Saturday  Salon, 
for  although  a  youthful  minor  poet,  he  was  modest 
and  lovable.  Perhaps  his  Oxford  tutorship  was 
sobering.  At  any  rate  his  head  remained  unturned 
by  his  precocious  fame,  and  to  meet  these  other 
young  men  and  women  —  his  reverend  seniors  on  the 
slopes  of  Parnassus  —  gave  him  more  pleasure  than 
the  receipt  of  "royalties."  Not  that  his  publisher 
afforded  him  much  opportunity  of  contrasting  the  two 
pleasures.  The  profits  of  the  Muse  went  to  provide 
this  room  of  old  furniture  and  roses,  this  beautiful 
garden  a-twinkle  with  Japanese  lanterns,  like  gor- 
geous fire-flowers  blossoming  under  the  white  crescent- 
moon  of  early  June. 

Winifred  Glamorys  was  not  literary  herself.  She 
was  better  than  a  poetess,  she  was  a  poem.  The 
publisher  always  threw  in  a  few  realities,  and  some 
beautiful  brainless  creature  would  generally  be  found 
the   nucleus   of   a   crowd,   while    Clio   in    spectacles 

75 


76  THE    WOMAN  BEATER 

languished  in  a  corner.  Winifred  Glamorys,  however, 
was  reputed  to  have  a  tongue  that  matched  her  eye  ; 
paralleling  with  whimsies  and  epigrams  its  freakish 
fires  and  witcheries,  and,  assuredly,  flitting  in  her 
white  gown  through  the  dark  balmy  garden,  she 
seemed  the  very  spirit  of  moonlight,  the  subtle  incar- 
nation of  night  and  roses. 

When  John  Lefolle  met  her,  Cecilia  was  with  her, 
and  the  first  conversation  was  triangular.  Cecilia 
fired  most  of  the  shots ;  she  was  a  bouncing,  rattling 
beauty,  chockful  of  confidence  and  high  spirits,  except 
when  asked  to  do  the  one  thing  she  could  do  —  sing  ! 
Then  she  became  —  quite  genuinely  —  a  nervous,  hesi- 
tant, pale  little  thing.  However,  the  suppliant  hostess 
bore  her  off,  and  presently  her  rich  contralto  notes 
passed  through  the  garden,  adding  to  its  passion  and 
mystery,  and  through  the  open  French  windows, 
John  could  see  her  standing  against  the  wall  near 
the  piano,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  eyes  half-closed, 
her  creamy  throat  swelling  in  the  very  abandonment 
of  artistic  ecstasy. 

"What  a  charming  creature  !  "  he  exclaimed  invol- 
untarily. 

"That  is  what  everybody  thinks,  except  her  hus- 
band," Winifred  laughed. 

"  Is  he  blind  then  ?  "  asked  John  with  his  cloistral 
naivete. 

"Blind?   No,  love  is  blind.    Marriage  is  never  blind." 

The  bitterness  in  her  tone  pierced  John.     He  felt 


THE    WOMAN  BEATER  11 

vaguely  the  passing  of  some  icy  current  from  un- 
known seas  of  experience.  Cecilia's  voice  soared  out 
enchantingly. 

"Then,  marriage  must  be  deaf,"  he  said,  "or  such 
music  as  that  would  charm  it." 

She  smiled  sadly.  Her  smile  was  the  tricksy  play 
of  moonlight  among  clouds  of  faery. 

"  You  have  never  been  married,"  she  said  simply. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you,  too,  are  neglected  ? " 
something  impelled  him  to  exclaim. 

"  Worse,"  she  murmured. 

"  It  is  incredible  !  "  he  cried.     "  You  ! " 

"  Hush  !     My  husband  will  hear  you." 

Her  warning  whisper  brought  him  into  a  delicious 
conspiracy  with  her.  "Which  is  your  husband  ? "  he 
whispered  back. 

"  There !  Near  the  casement,  standing  gazing 
open-mouthed  at  Cecilia.  He  always  opens  his 
mouth  when  she  sings.  It  is  like  two  toys  moved  by 
the  same  wire." 

He  looked  at  the  tall,  stalwart,  ruddy-haired  Anglo- 
Saxon.     "  Do  you  mean  to  say  he  —  ?  " 

"I  mean  to  say  nothing." 

"  But  you  said  —  " 

"  I  said  '  worse.'  " 

"  Why,  what  can  be  worse  ?  " 

She  put  her  hand  over  her  face.  "  I  am  ashamed 
to  tell  you."  How  adorable  was  that  half-divined 
blush  ! 


78  THE    WOMAN  BEATER 

"  But  you  must  tell  me  everything."  He  scarcely 
knew  how  he  had  leapt  into  this  role  of  confessor. 
He  only  felt  they  were  "  moved  by  the  same 
wire." 

Her  head  drooped  on  her  breast.  "He  —  beats  — 
me." 

"  What !  "  John  forgot  to  whisper.  It  was  the 
greatest  shock  his  recluse  life  had  known,  compact 
as  it  was  of  horror  at  the  revelation,  shamed  confusion 
at  her  candour,  and  delicious  pleasure  in  her  con- 
fidence. 

This  fragile,  exquisite  creature  under  the  rod  of  a 
brutal  bully ! 

Once  he  had  gone  to  a  wedding  reception,  and 
among  the  serious  presents  some  grinning  Philistine 
drew  his  attention  to  an  uncouth  club  —  "a  wife- 
beater "  he  called  it.  The  flippancy  had  jarred  upon 
John  terribly  :  this  intrusive  reminder  of  the  customs 
of  the  slums.  It  grated  like  Billingsgate  in  a  boudoir. 
Now  that  savage  weapon  recurred  to  him  —  for  a 
lurid  instant  he  saw  Winifred's  husband  wielding  it. 
Oh,  abomination  of  his  sex !  And  did  he  stand  there, 
in  his  immaculate  evening  dress,  posing  as  an  Eng- 
lish gentleman  ?  Even  so  might  some  gentleman 
burglar  bear  through  a  salon  his  imperturbable 
swallow-tail. 

Beat  a  woman !  Beat  that  essence  of  charm  and 
purity,  God's  best  gift  to  man,  redeeming  him  from 
his  own  grossness  !      Could  such  things  be  ?     John 


THE    WOMAN  BEATER  79 

Lefolle  would  as  soon  have  credited  the  French 
legend  that  English  wives  are  sold  in  Smithfield. 
No  !  it  could  not  be  real  that  this  flower-like  figure 
was  thrashed. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say — ?"  he  cried.  The 
rapidity  of  her  confidence  alone  made  him  feel  it  all 
of  a  dreamlike  unreality. 

"  Hush  !  Cecilia's  singing  !  "  she  admonished  him 
with  an  unexpected  smile,  as  her  fingers  fell  from  her 
face. 

"  Oh,  you  have  been  making  fun  of  me."  He  was 
vastly  relieved.  "  He  beats  you  —  at  chess  —  or  at 
lawn-tennis  ? " 

"  Does  one  wear  a  high-necked  dress  to  conceal 
the  traces  of  chess,  or  lawn-tennis  ?  " 

He  had  not  noticed  her  dress  before,  save  for  its 
spiritual  whiteness.  Susceptible  though  he  was  to 
beautiful  shoulders,  Winifred's  enchanting  face  had 
been  sufficiently  distracting.  Now  the  thought  of 
physical  bruises  gave  him  a  second  spasm  of  right- 
eous horror.  That  delicate  rose-leaf  flesh  abraded 
and  lacerated  ! 

"  The  ruffian  !     Does  he  use  a  stick  or  a  fist  ?  " 

"  Both  !  But  as  a  rule  he  just  takes  me  by  the  arms 
and  shakes  me  like  a  terrier  a  rat.  I'm  all  black  and 
blue  now." 

"  Poor  butterfly  !  "  he  murmured  poetically. 

"Why  did  I  tell  you?"  she  murmured  back  with 
subtler  poetry. 


80  THE    WOMAN  BEATER 

The  poet  thrilled  in  every  vein.  "  Love  at  first 
sight,"  of  which  he  had  often  read  and  often  written, 
was  then  a  reality !  It  could  be  as  mutual,  too,  as 
Romeo's  and  Juliet's.  But  how  awkward  that  Juliet 
should  be  married  and  her  husband  a  Bill  Sykes  in 
broadcloth ! 

II 

Mrs.  Glamorys  herself  gave  "At  Homes,"  every 
Sunday  afternoon,  and  so,  on  the  morrow,  after  a 
sleepless  night  mitigated  by  perpended  sonnets,  the 
love-sick  young  tutor  presented  himself  by  invitation 
at  the  beautiful  old  house  in  Hampstead.  He  was 
enchanted  to  find  his  heart's  mistress  set  in  an  eigh- 
teenth-century frame  of  small-paned  windows  and  of 
high  oak-panelling,  and  at  once  began  to  image  her 
dancing  minuets  and  playing  on  virginals.  Her  hus- 
band was  absent,  but  a  broad  band  of  velvet  round 
Winifred's  neck  was  a  painful  reminder  of  his  possi- 
bilities. Winifred,  however,  said  it  was  only  a  touch 
of  sore  throat  caught  in  the  garden.  Her  eyes  added 
that  there  was  nothing  in  the  pathological  dictionary 
which  she  would  not  willingly  have  caught  for  the 
sake  of  those  divine,  if  draughty  moments  ;  but  that, 
alas  !  it  was  more  than  a  mere  bodily  ailment  she  had 
caught  there. 

There  were  a  great  many  visitors  in  the  two  de- 
lightfully quaint  rooms,  among  whom  he  wandered 
disconsolate  and  admired,  jealous   of   her  scattered 


THE    WOMAN  BEATER  81 

smiles,  but  presently  he  .found  himself  seated  by  her 
side  on  a  "cosy  corner"  near  the  open  folding-doors, 
with  all  the  other  guests  huddled  round  a  violinist  in 
the  inner  room.  How  Winifred  had  managed  it  he 
did  not  know,  but  she  sat  plausibly  in  the  outer  room, 
awaiting  new-comers,  and  this  particular  niche  was 
invisible,  save  to  a  determined  eye.  He  took  her 
unresisting  hand  —  that  dear,  warm  hand,  with  its 
begemmed  artistic  fingers,  and  held  it  in  uneasy  beati- 
tude. How  wonderful!  She  —  the  beautiful  and 
adored  hostess,  of  whose  sweetness  and  charm  he 
heard  even  her  own  guests  murmur  to  one  another  — 
it  was  her  actual  flesh-and-blood  hand  that  lay  in  his 
—  thrillingly  tangible.  Oh,  adventure  beyond  all 
merit,  beyond  all  hoping ! 

But  every  now  and  then,  the  outer  door  facing 
them  would  open  on  some  new-comer,  and  John  had 
hastily  to  release  her  soft  magnetic  fingers  and  sit 
demure,  and  jealously  overhear  her  effusive  welcome 
to  those  innocent  intruders,  nor  did  his  brow  clear  till 
she  had  shepherded  them  within  the  inner  fold.  For- 
tunately, the  refreshments  were  in  this  section,  so 
that  once  therein,  few  of  the  sheep  strayed  back,  and 
the  jiggling  wail  of  the  violin  was  succeeded  by  a 
shrill  babble  of  tongues  and  the  clatter  of  cups  and 
spoons.  "Get  me  an  ice,  please  —  strawberry,"  she 
ordered  John  during  one  of  these  forced  intervals  in 
manual  flirtation ;  and  when  he  had  steered  labori- 
ously to  and  fro,  he  found  a  young  actor  beside  her 


82  THE    WOMAN  BEATER 

in  his  cosy  corner,  and  his  jealous  fancy  almost  saw 
their  hands  dispart.  He  stood  over  them  with  a 
sickly  smile,  while  Winifred  ate  her  ice.  When  he 
returned  from  depositing  the  empty  saucer,  the  player- 
fellow  was  gone,  and  in  remorse  for  his  mad  suspi- 
cion he  stooped  and  reverently  lifted  her  fragrant 
finger-tips  to  his  lips.  The  door  behind  his  back 
opened  abruptly. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said,  rising  in  a  flash.  The 
words  had  the  calm  conventional  cadence,  and  in- 
stantly extorted  from  him  —  amid  all  his  dazedness 
—  the  corresponding  ''Good-bye."  When  he  turned 
and  saw  it  was  Mr.  Glamorys  who  had  come  in,  his 
heart  leapt  wildly  at  the  nearness  of  his  escape.  As 
he  passed  this  masked  ruffian,  he  nodded  perfunc- 
torily and  received  a  cordial  smile.  Yes,  he  was 
handsome  and  fascinating  enough  externally,  this 
blonde  savage. 

"A  man  may  smile  and  smile  and  be  a  villain," 
John  thought.  "  I  wonder  how  he'd  feel,  if  he  knew 
I  knew  he  beats  women." 

Already  John  had  generalised  the  charge.  "  I 
hope  Cecilia  will  keep  him  at  arm's  length,"  he  had 
said  to  Winifred,  "  if  only  that  she  may  not  smart  for 
it  some  day." 

He  lingered  purposely  in  the  hall  to  get  an  im- 
pression of  the  brute,  who  had  begun  talking  loudly 
to  a  friend  with  irritating  bursts  of  laughter,  spe- 
ciously frank-ringing.     Golf,  fishing,  comic  operas  — 


THE    WOMAN  BEATER  83 

ah,  the  Boeotian  !     These  were  the  men  who  monopo- 
lised the  ethereal  divinities. 

But  this  brusque  separation  from  his  particular 
divinity  was  disconcerting.  How  to  see  her  again  ? 
He  must  go  up  to  Oxford  in  the  morning,  he  wrote 
her  that  night,  but  if  she  could  possibly  let  him  call 
during  the  week  he  would  manage  to  run  down  again. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  dreaming  poet,"  she  wrote  to  Ox- 
ford, "how  could  you  possibly  send  me  a  letter  to  be 
laid  on  the  breakfast-table  beside  The  Times  !  With 
a  poem  in  it,  too.  Fortunately  my  husband  was  in  a 
hurry  to  get  down  to  the  City,  and  he  neglected  to 
read  my  correspondence.  ('  The  unchivalrous  black- 
guard,' John  commented.  '  But  what  can  be  ex- 
pected of  a  woman  beater  ? ')  Never,  never  write  to 
me  again  at  the  house.  A  letter,  care  of  Mrs.  Best, 
8a  Foley  Street,  W.C.,  will  always  find  me.  She  is 
my  maid's  mother.  And  you  must  not  come  here 
either,  my  dear  handsome  head-in-the-clouds,  except 
to  my  'At  Homes,'  and  then  only  at  judicious  inter- 
vals. I  shall  be  walking  round  the  pond  in  Kensing- 
ton Gardens  at  four  next  Wednesday,  unless  Mrs. 
Best  brings  me  a  letter  to  the  contrary.  And  now 
thank  you  for  your  delicious  poem ;  I  do  not  recog- 
nise my  humble  self  in  the  dainty  lines,  but  I  shall 
always  be  proud  to  think  I  inspired  them.  Will  it  be 
in  the  new  volume  ?  I  have  never  been  in  print  be- 
fore ;  it  will  be  a  novel  sensation.     I  cannot  pay  you 


84  THE    WOMAN  BEATER 

song  for  song,  only  feeling  for  feeling.  Oh,  John 
Lefolle,  why  did  we  not  meet  when  I  had  still  my 
girlish  dreams  ?  Now,  I  have  grown  to  distrust  all 
men  —  to  fear  the  brute  beneath  the  cavalier.  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Best  did  bring  her  a  letter,  but  it  was  not  to 
cancel  the  appointment,  only  to  say  he  was  not  sur- 
prised at  her  horror  of  the  male  sex,  but  that  she 
must  beware  of  false  generalisations.  Life  was  still 
a  wonderful  and  beautiful  thing  —  vide  poem  en- 
closed. He  was  counting  the  minutes  till  Wednesday 
afternoon.  It  was  surely  a  popular  mistake  that 
only  sixty  went  to  the  hour. 

This  chronometrical  reflection  recurred  to  him  even 
more  poignantly  in  the  hour  that  he  circumambulated 
the  pond  in  Kensington  Gardens.  Had  she  for- 
gotten —  had  her  husband  locked  her  up  ?  What 
could  have  happened  ?  It  seemed  six  hundred  min- 
utes, ere,  at  ten  past  five  she  came  tripping  daintily 
towards  him.  His  brain  had  been  reduced  to  insanely 
devising  problems  for  his  pupils  —  if  a  man  walks 
two  strides  of  one  and  a  half  feet  a  second  round  a 
lake  fifty  acres  in  area,  in  how  many  turns  will  he 
overtake  a  lady  who  walks  half  as  fast  and  isn't 
there  ?  —  but  the  moment  her  pink  parasol  loomed  on 
the  horizon,  all  his  long  misery  vanished  in  an  ineffa- 
ble peace  and  uplifting.  He  hurried,  bare-headed, 
to  clasp  her  little  gloved  hand.  He  had  forgotten 
her  unpunctuality,  nor  did  she  remind  him  of  it. 


THE    WOMAN  BEATER  85 

"  How  sweet  of  you  to  come  all  that  way,"  was  all 
she  said,  and  it  was  a  sufficient  reward  for  the  hours 
in  the  train  and  the  six  hundred  minutes  among  the 
nursemaids  and  perambulators.  The  elms  were  in 
their  glory,  the  birds  were  singing  briskly,  the  water 
sparkled,  the  sunlit  sward  stretched  fresh  and  green 
—  it  was  the  loveliest,  coolest  moment  of  the  after- 
noon. John  instinctively  turned  down  a  leafy  avenue. 
Nature  and  Love  !     What  more  could  poet  ask  ? 

"  No,  we  can't  have  tea  by  the  Kiosk,"  Mrs.  Gla- 
morys  protested.  "  Of  course  I  love  anything  that 
savours  of  Paris,  but  it's  become  so  fashionable. 
There  will  be  heaps  of  people  who  know  me.  I  sup- 
pose you've  forgotten  it's  the  height  of  the  season. 
I  know  a  quiet  little  place  in  the  High  Street."  She 
led  him,  unresisting  but  bemused,  towards  the  gate, 
and  into  a  confectioner's.  Conversation  languished 
on  the  way. 

"Tea,"  he  was  about  to  instruct  the  pretty 
attendant. 

"  Strawberry  ices,"  Mrs.  Glamorys  remarked 
gently.      "And  some  of  those  nice  French  cakes." 

The  ice  restored  his  spirits,  it  was  really  delicious, 
and  he  had  got  so  hot  and  tired,  pacing  round  the 
pond.  Decidedly  Winifred  was  a  practical  person 
and  he  was  a  dreamer.  The  pastry  he  dared  not 
touch  —  being  a  genius  —  but  he  was  charmed  at  the 
gaiety  with  which  Winifred  crammed  cake  after  cake 
into  her  rosebud  of  a  mouth.     What  an  enchanting 


86  THE    WOMAN  BEATER 

creature !  how  bravely  she  covered  up  her  life's 
tragedy ! 

The  thought  made  him  glance  at  her  velvet  band 
—  it  was  broader  than  ever. 

"  He  has  beaten  you  again !  "  he  murmured  furi- 
ously. Her  joyous  eyes  saddened,  she  hung  her 
head,  and  her  fingers  crumbled  the  cake.  "  What  is 
his  pretext  ? "  he  asked,  his  blood  burning. 

"  Jealousy,"  she  whispered. 

His  blood  lost  its  glow,  ran  cold.  He  felt  the 
bully's  blows  on  his  own  skin,  his  romance  turning 
suddenly  sordid.  But  he  recovered  his  courage.  He, 
too,  had  muscles.  "  But  I  thought  he  just  missed 
seeing  me  kiss  your  hand." 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide.  "  It  wasn't  you,  you 
darling  old  dreamer." 

He  was  relieved  and  disturbed  in  one. 

"  Somebody  else  ?  "  he  murmured.  Somehow  the 
vision  of  the  player-fellow  came  up. 

She  nodded.  "  Isn't  it  lucky  he  has  himself  drawn 
a  red-herring  across  the  track  ?  I  didn't  mind  his 
blows  — you  were  safe !  "  Then,  with  one  of  her 
adorable  transitions,  "  I  am  dreaming  of  another 
ice,"  she  cried  with  roguish  wistfulness. 

"  I  was  afraid  to  confess  my  own  greediness,"  he  said, 
laughing.     He  beckoned  the  waitress.     "  Two  more." 

"We  haven't  got  any  more  strawberries,"  was  her 
unexpected  reply.  "  There's  been  such  a  run  on 
them  to-day." 


THE    WOMAN  BEATER  87 

Winifred's  face  grew  overcast.  "  Oh,  nonsense  !  " 
she  pouted.     To  John  the  moment  seemed  tragic. 

"  Won't  you  have  mother  kind  ? "  he  queried.  He 
himself  liked  any  kind,  but  he  could  scarcely  eat  a 
second  ice  without  her. 

Winifred  meditated.     "  Coffee  ?  "  she  queried. 

The  waitress  went  away  and  returned  with  a  face 
as  gloomy  as  Winifred's.  "  It's  been  such  a  hot 
day,"  she  said  deprecatingly.  "There  is  only  one 
ice  in  the  place  and  that's  Neapolitan." 

"  Well,  bring  two  Neapolitans,"  John  ventured. 

"  I  mean  there  is  only  one  Neapolitan  ice  left." 

"Well,  bring  that.     I  don't  really  want  one." 

He  watched  Mrs.  Glamorys  daintily  devouring 
the  solitary  ice,  and  felt  a  certain  pathos  about  the 
parti-coloured  oblong,  a  something  of  the  haunting 
sadness  of  "The  Last  Rose  of  Summer."  It 
would  make  a  graceful,  serio-comic  triolet,  he  was 
thinking.  But  at  the  last  spoonful,  his  beautiful 
companion  dislocated  his  rhymes  by  her  sudden 
upspringing. 

"  Goodness  gracious,"  she  cried,  "  how  late  it  is !  " 

"Oh,  you're  not  leaving  me  yet!"  he  said.  A 
world  of  things  sprang  to  his  brain,  things  that  he 
was  going  to  say  —  to  arrange.  They  had  said  noth- 
ing —  not  a  word  of  their  love  even ;  nothing  but 
cakes  and  ices. 

"  Poet !  "  she  laughed.  "  Have  you  forgotten  I 
live  at   Hampstead?"     She  picked  up   her  parasol. 


88  THE    WOMAN  BEATER 

"  Put  me  into  a  hansom,  or  my  husband  will  be 
raving  at  his  lonely  dinner-table." 

He  was  so  dazed  as  to  b'„  "urprised  when  the 
waitress  blocked  his  departure  with  a  bill.  When 
Winifred  was  spirited  away,  he  remembered  she 
might,  without  much  risk,  have  given  him  a  lift  to 
Paddington.  He  hailed  another  hansom  and  caught 
the  next  train  to  Oxford.  But  he  was  too  late  for 
his  own  dinner  in  Hall. 


Ill 

He  was  kept  very  busy  for  the  next  few  days,  and 
could  only  exchange  a  passionate  letter  or  two  with 
her.  For  some  time  the  examination  fever  had  been 
raging,  and  in  every  college  poor  patients  sat  with 
wet  towels  round  their  heads.  Some,  who  had  neg- 
lected their  tutor  all  the  term,  now  strove  to  absorb 
his  omniscience  in  a  sitting. 

On  the  Monday,  John  Lefolle  was  good-naturedly 
giving  a  special  audience  to  a  muscular  dunce,  try- 
ing to  explain  to  him  the  political  effects  of  the 
Crusades,  when  there  was  a  knock  at  the  sitting- 
room  door,  and  the  scout  ushered  in  Mrs.  Glamorys. 
She  was  bewitchingly  dressed  in  white,  and  stood 
in  the  open  doorway,  smiling  —  an  embodiment  of 
the  summer  he  was  neglecting.  He  rose,  but  his 
tongue  was  paralysed.  The  dunce  became  suddenly 
important  —  a  symbol  of  the  decorum  he  had  been 


THE    WOMAN  BEATER  89 

outraging.  His  soul,  torn  so  abruptly  from  history 
to  romance,  could  not  get  up  the  right  emotion. 
Why  this  imprudence  of  Winifred's  ?  She  had  been 
so  careful  heretofore. 

"  What  a  lot  of  boots  there  are  on  your  staircase !  " 
she  said  gaily. 

He  laughed.  The  spell  was  broken.  "Yes,  the 
heap  to  be  cleaned  is  rather  obtrusive,"  he  said, 
"but  I  suppose  it  is  a  sort  of  tradition." 

"  I  think  I've  got  hold  of  the  thing  pretty  well  now, 
sir."  The  dunce  rose  and  smiled,  and  his  tutor  real- 
ised how  little  the  dunce  had  to  learn  in  some  things. 
He  felt  quite  grateful  to  him. 

"  Oh,  well,  you'll  come  and  see  me  again  after 
lunch,  won't  you,  if  one  or  two  points  occur  to  you 
for  elucidation,"  he  said,  feeling  vaguely  a  liar,  and 
generally  guilty.  But  when,  on  the  departure  of  the 
dunce,  Winifred  held  out  her  arms,  everything  fell 
from  him  but  the  sense  of  the  exquisite  moment. 
Their  lips  met  for  the  first  time,  but  only  for  an 
instant.  He  had  scarcely  time  to  realise  that  this 
wonderful  thing  had  happened  before  the  mobile 
creature  had  darted  to  his  book-shelves  and  was  ex- 
amining a  Thucydides  upside  down. 

"  How  clever  to  know  Greek ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  And  do  you  really  talk  it  with  the  other  dons  ?  " 

"  No,  we  never  talk  shop,"  he  laughed.  "  But, 
Winifred,  what  made  you  come  here  ? " 

"  I  had  never  seen  Oxford.      Isn't  it  beautiful  ?  " 


90  THE    WOMAN  BEATER 

" There's  nothing  beautiful  here"  he  said,  looking 
round  his  sober  study. 

a  No,"  she  admitted;  "there's  nothing  I  care  for 
here,"  and  had  left  another  celestial  kiss  on  his  lips 
before  he  knew  it.  "  And  now  you  must  take  me  to 
lunch  and  on  the  river." 

He  stammered,  "I  have  —  work." 

She  pouted.  "  But  I  can't  stay  beyond  to-morrow 
morning,  and  I  want  so  much  to  see  all  your  cele- 
brated oarsmen  practising." 

"You  are  not  staying  over  the  night?  "  he  gasped. 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  and  she  threw  him  a  dazzling 
glance. 

His  heart  went  pit-a-pat.  "  Where  ? "  he  mur- 
mured. 

"  Oh,  some  poky  little  hotel  near  the  station.  The 
swell  hotels  are  full." 

He  was  glad  to  hear  she  was  not  conspicuously 
quartered. 

"  So  many  people  have  come  down  already  for 
Commem,"  he  said.  "  I  suppose  they  are  anxious 
to  see  the  Generals  get  their  degrees.  But  hadn't 
we  better  go  somewhere  and  lunch?" 

They  went  down  the  stone  staircase,  past  the  bat- 
talion of  boots,  and  across  the  quad.  He  felt  that 
all  the  windows  were  alive  with  eyes,  but  she  in- 
sisted on  standing  still  and  admiring  their  ivied  pic- 
turesqueness.  After  lunch  he  shamefacedly  borrowed 
the  dunce's  punt.     The  necessities  of  punting,  which 


THE   WOMAN  BEATER  91 

kept  him  far  from  her,  and  demanded  much  adroit 
labour,  gradually  restored  his  self-respect,  and  he  was 
able  to  look  the  uncelebrated  oarsmen  they  met  in 
the  eyes,  except  when  they  were  accompanied  by 
their  parents  and  sisters,  which  subtly  made  him  feel 
uncomfortable  again.  But  Winifred,  piquant  under 
her  pink  parasol,  was  singularly  at  ease,  enraptured 
with  the  changing  beauty  of  the  river,  applauding 
with  childish  glee  the  wild  flowers  on  the  banks,  or 
the  rippling  reflections  in  the  water. 

"  Look,  look !  "  she  cried  once,  pointing  skyward. 
He  stared  upwards,  expecting  a  balloon  at  least. 
But  it  was  only  "  Keats'  little  rosy  cloud,"  she  ex- 
plained. It  was  not  her  fault  if  he  did  not  find 
the  excursion  unreservedly  idyllic. 

"How  stupid,"  she  reflected,  "to  keep  all  those 
nice  boys  cooped  up  reading  dead  languages  in  a 
spot  made  for  life  and  love." 

"  I'm  afraid  they  don't  disturb  the  dead  languages 
so  much  as  you  think,"  he  reassured  her,  smiling. 
"And  there  will  be  plenty  of  love-making  during 
Commem." 

"  I  am  so  glad.  I  suppose  there  are  lots  of  en- 
gagements that  week." 

"Oh,  yes  —  but  not  one  per  cent,  come  to  any- 
thing." 

"  Really  ?     Oh,  how  fickle  men  are  !  " 

That  seemed  rather  question-begging,  but  he  was 
so  thrilled  by  the  implicit  revelation  that  she  could 


92  THE    WOMAN  BEATER 

not  even  imagine  feminine  inconstancy,  that  he 
forebore  to  draw  her  attention  to  her  inadequate 
logic. 

So  childish  and  thoughtless  indeed  was  she  that 
day  that  nothing  would  content  her  but  attending 
a  "  Viva,"  which  he  had  incautiously  informed  her 
was  public. 

"  Nobody  will  notice  us,"  she  urged  with  strange 
unconsciousness  of  her  loveliness.  "  Besides,  they 
don't  know  I'm  not  your  sister." 

"  The  Oxford  intellect  is  sceptical,"  he  said,  laugh- 
ing.    "  It  cultivates  philosophical  doubt." 

But,  putting  a  bold  face  on  the  matter,  and  assum- 
ing a  fraternal  air,  he  took  her  to  the  torture-cham- 
ber, in  which  candidates  sat  dolefully  on  a  row  of 
chairs  against  the  wall,  waiting  their  turn  to  come 
before  the  three  grand  inquisitors  at  the  table.  Fortu- 
nately, Winifred  and  he  were  the  only  spectators ; 
but  unfortunately  they  blundered  in  at  the  very 
moment  when  the  poor  owner  of  the  punt  was  on 
the  rack.  The  central  inquisitor  was  trying  to  ex- 
tract from  him  information  about  a  Becket,  almost 
prompting  him  with  the  very  words,  but  without 
penetrating  through  the  duncical  denseness.  John 
Lefolle  breathed  more  freely  when  the  Crusades 
were  broached ;  but,  alas,  it  very  soon  became  evi- 
dent that  the  dunce  had  by  no  means  "got  hold 
of  the  thing."  As  the  dunce  passed  out  sadly,  ob- 
viously ploughed,  John   Lefolle  suffered  more   than 


THE    WOMAN  BEATER  93 

he.  So  conscience-stricken  was  he  that,  when  he 
had  accompanied  Winifred  as  far  as  her  hotel,  he 
refused  her  invitation  to  come  in,  pleading  the  com- 
pulsoriness  of  duty  and  dinner  in  Hall.  But  he 
could  not  get  away  without  promising  to  call  in 
during  the  evening. 

The  prospect  of  this  visit  was  with  him  all  through 
dinner,  at  once  tempting  and  terrifying.  Assuredly 
there  was  a  skeleton  at  his  feast,  as  he  sat  at  the 
high  table,  facing  the  Master.  The  venerable  por- 
traits round  the  Hall  seemed  to  rebuke  his  roman- 
tic waywardness.  In  the  common-room,  he  sipped 
his  port  uneasily,  listening  as  in  a  daze  to  the  dis- 
cussion on  Free  Will,  which  an  eminent  stranger 
had  stirred  up.  How  academic  it  seemed,  compared 
with  the  passionate  realities  of  life.  But  somehow 
he  found  himself  lingering  on  at  the  academic  dis- 
cussion, postponing  the  realities  of  life.  Every  now 
and  again,  he  was  impelled  to  glance  at  his  watch ; 
but  suddenly  murmuring,  "  It  is  very  late,"  he  pulled 
himself  together,  and  took  leave  of  his  learned  breth- 
ren. But  in  the  street  the  sight  of  a  telegraph  office 
drew  his  steps  to  it,  and  almost  mechanically  he  wrote 
out  the  message  :  "  Regret  detained.  Will  call  early 
in  morning." 

When  he  did  call  in  the  morning,  he  was  told  she 
had  gone  back  to  London  the  night  before  on  receipt 
of  a  telegram.  He  turned  away  with  a  bitter  pang 
of  disappointment  and  regret. 


94  THE    WOMAN  BEATER 


IV 


Their  subsequent  correspondence  was  only  the 
more  amorous.  The  reason  she  had  fled  from  the 
hotel,  she  explained,  was  that  she  could  not  endure 
the  night  in  those  stuffy  quarters.  lie  consoled  him- 
self with  the  hope  of  seeing  much  of  her  during  the 
Long  Vacation.  He  did  see  her  once  at  her  own 
reception,  but  this  time  her  husband  wandered  about 
the  two  rooms.  The  cosy  corner  was  impossible, 
and  they  could  only  manage  to  gasp  out  a  few  mu- 
tual endearments  amid  the  buzz  and  movement,  and 
to  arrange  a  rendezvous  for  the  end  of  July.  When 
the  day  came,  he  received  a  heart-broken  letter,  stat- 
ing that  her  husband  had  borne  her  away  to  Good- 
wood. In  a  postscript  she  informed  him  that 
"  Quicksilver  was  a  sure  thing."  Much  correspond- 
ence passed  without  another  meeting  being  effected, 
and  he  lent  her  five  pounds  to  pay  a  debt  of  honour 
incurred  through  her  husband's  "  absurd  confidence 
in  Quicksilver."  A  week  later  this  horsey  husband 
of  hers  brought  her  on  to  Brighton  for  the  races 
there,  and  hither  John  Lefolle  flew.  But  her  hus- 
band shadowed  her,  and  he  could  only  lift  his  hat  to 
her  as  they  passed  each  other  on  the  Lawns.  Some- 
times he  saw  her  sitting  pensively  on  a  chair  while 
her  lord  and  thrasher  perused  a  pink  sporting-paper. 
Such  tantalising  proximity  raised  their  correspond- 
ence through  the  Hove   Post  Office  to  fever  heat. 


THE    WOMAN  BEATER  95 

Life  apart,  they  felt,  was  impossible,  and,  removed 
from  the  sobering  influences  of  his  cap  and  gown, 
John  Lefolle  dreamed  of  throwing  everything  to  the 
winds.  His  literary  reputation  had  opened  out  a 
new  career.  The  Winifred  lyrics  alone  had  brought 
in  a  tidy  sum,  and  though  he  had  expended  that  and 
more  on  despatches  of  flowers  and  trifles  to  her,  yet 
he  felt  this  extravagance  would  become  extinguished 
under  daily  companionship,  and  the  poems  provoked 
by  her  charms  would  go  far  towards  their  daily  main- 
tenance. Yes,  he  could  throw  up  the  University. 
He  would  rescue  her  from  this  bully,  this  gentleman 
bruiser.  They  would  live  openly  and  nobly  in  the 
world's  eye.  A  poet  was  not  even  expected  to  be 
conventional. 

She,  on  her  side,  was  no  less  ardent  for  the  great 
step.  She  raged  against  the  world's  law,  the  injus- 
tice by  which  a  husband's  cruelty  was  not  sufficient 
ground  for  divorce.  "  But  we  finer  souls  must  take 
the  law  into  our  own  hands,"  she  wrote.  "  We  must 
teach  society  that  the  ethics  of  a  barbarous  age  are 
unfitted  for  our  century  of  enlightenment."  But 
somehow  the  actual  time  and  place  of  the  elopement 
could  never  get  itself  fixed.  In  September  her  hus- 
band dragged  her  to  Scotland,  in  October  after  the 
pheasants.  When  the  dramatic  day  was  actually 
fixed,  Winifred  wrote  by  the  next  post  deferring  it 
for  a  week.  Even  the  few  actual  preliminary  meet- 
ings they  planned  for  Kensington  Gardens  or  Hamp- 


96  THE    WOMAN  BEATER 

stead  Heath  rarely  came  off.  He  lived  in  a  whirling 
atmosphere  of  express  letters  of  excuse,  and  tele- 
grams that  transformed  the  situation  from  hour  to 
hour.  Not  that  her  passion  in  any  way  abated,  or 
her  romantic  resolution  really  altered :  it  was  only 
that  her  conception  of  time  and  place  and  ways  and 
means  was  dizzily  mutable. 

But  after  nigh  six  months  of  palpitating  negotia- 
tions with  the  adorable  Mrs.  Glamorys,  the  poet,  in 
a  moment  of  dejection,  penned  the  prose  apoph- 
thegm, "  It  is  of  no  use  trying  to  change  a  change- 
able person." 

V 

But  at  last  she  astonished  him  by  a  sketch  plan 
of  the  elopement,  so  detailed,  even  to  band-boxes  and 
the  Paris  night  route  via  Dieppe,  that  no  further 
room  for  doubt  was  left  in  his  intoxicated  soul,  and 
he  was  actually  further  astonished  when,  just  as  he 
was  putting  his  hand-bag  into  the  hansom,  a  telegram 
was  handed  to  him  saying  :  "  Gone  to  Homburg.  Let- 
ter follows."  . 

He  stood  still  for  a  moment  on  the  pavement  in 
utter  distraction.  What  did  it  mean  ?  Had  she 
failed  him  again  ?  Or  was  it  simply  that  she  had 
changed  the  city  of  refuge  from  Paris  to  Homburg  ? 
He  was  about  to  name  the  new  station  to  the  cab- 
man, but  then,  "  letter  follows."  Surely  that  meant 
that  he  was  to  wait  for  it.     Perplexed  and  miserable, 


THE    WOMAN  BEATER  97 

he  stood  with  the  telegram  crumpled  up  in  his  fist. 
What  a  ridiculous  situation  !  He  had  wrought  him- 
self up  to  the  point  of  breaking  with  the  world  and 
his  past,  and  now  —  it  only  remained  to  satisfy  the 
cabman  ! 

He  tossed  feverishly  all  night,  seeking  to  soothe 
himself,  but  really  exciting  himself  the  more  by  a 
hundred  plausible  explanations.  He  was  now  strung 
up  to  such  a  pitch  of  uncertainty  that  he  was  aston- 
ished for  the  third  time  when  the  "letter"  did  duly 
"follow." 

"  Dearest,"  it  ran,  "  as  I  explained  in  my  telegram, 
my  husband  became  suddenly  ill" — ("if  she  had 
only  put  that  in  the  telegram,"  he  groaned) — "and 
was  ordered  to  Homburg.  Of  course  it  was  impos- 
sible to  leave  him  in  this  crisis,  both  for  practical 
and  sentimental  reasons.  You  yourself,  darling, 
would  not  like  me  to  have  aggravated  his  illness  by 
my  flight  just  at  this  moment,  and  thus  possibly  have 
his  death  on  my  conscience."  ("Darling,  you  are 
always  right,"  he  said,  kissing  the  letter.)  "Let  us 
possess  our  souls  in  patience  a  little  longer.  I  need 
not  tell  you  how  vexatious  it  will  be  to  find  myself 
nursing  him  in  Homburg  —  out  of  the  season  even 
—  instead  of  the  prospect  to  which  I  had  looked  for- 
ward with  my  whole  heart  and  soul.  But  what  can 
one  do  ?  How  true  is  the  French  proverb,  '  Noth- 
ing   happens   but   the    unexpected ' !     Write   to   me 


08  THE    WOMAN  BEATER 

immediately  Poste  Restante,  that  I  may  at  least  con- 
sole myself  with  your  dear  words." 

The  unexpected  did  indeed  happen.  Despite 
draughts  of  Elizabethbrunnen  and  promenades  on 
the  Kurhaus  terrace,  the  stalwart  woman  beater  suc- 
cumbed to  his  malady.  The  curt  telegram  from 
Winifred  gave  no  indication  of  her  emotions.  He 
sent  a  reply-telegram  of  sympathy  with  her  trouble. 
Although  he  could  not  pretend  to  grieve  at  this  sud- 
den providential  solution  of  their  life-problem,  still 
he  did  sincerely  sympathise  with  the  distress  inevi- 
table in  connection  with  a  death,  especially  on  for- 
eign soil. 

He  was  not  able  to  see  her  till  her  husband's  body 
had  been  brought  across  the  North  Sea  and  com- 
mitted to  the  green  repose  of  the  old  Hampstead 
churchyard.  He  found  her  pathetically  altered  — 
her  face  wan  and  spiritualised,  and  all  in  subtle  har- 
mony with  the  exquisite  black  gown.  In  the  first 
interview,  he  did  not  dare  speak  of  their  love  at  all. 
They  discussed  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  she 
quoted  George  Herbert.  But  with  the  weeks  the 
question  of  their  future  began  to  force  its  way  back 
to  his  lips. 

"  We  could  not  decently  marry  before  six  months," 
she  said,  when  definitely  confronted  with  the  prob- 
lem. 

"  Six  months  !  "  he  gasped. 


THE    WOMAN  BEATER  99 

"  Well,  surely  you  don't  want  to  outrage  every- 
body," she  said,  pouting. 

At  first  he  was  outraged  himself.  What !  She 
who  had  been  ready  to  flutter  the  world  with  a  fan- 
tastic dance  was  now  measuring  her  footsteps.  But 
on  reflection  he  saw  that  Mrs.  Glamorys  was  right 
once  more.  Since  Providence  had  been  good  enough 
to  rescue  them,  why  should  they  fly  in  its  face  ?  A 
little  patience,  and  a  blameless  happiness  lay  before 
them.  Let  him  not  blind  himself  to  the  immense 
relief  he  really  felt  at  being  spared  social  obloquy. 
After  all,  a  poet  could  be  unconventional  in  his  work 

—  he  had  no  need  of  the  practical  outlet  demanded 
for  the  less  gifted. 

VI 

They  scarcely  met  at  all  during  the  next  six  months 

—  it  had,  naturally,  in  this  grateful  reaction  against 
their  recklessness,  become  a  sacred  period,  even  more 
charged  with  tremulous  emotion  than  the  engagement 
periods  of  those  who  have  not  so  nearly  scorched 
themselves.  Even  in  her  presence  he  found  a  cer- 
tain pleasure  in  combining  distant  adoration  with  the 
confident  expectation  of  proximity,  and  thus  she  was 
restored  to  the  sanctity  which  she  had  risked  by  her 
former  easiness.  And  so  all  was  for  the  best  in  the 
best  of  all  possible  worlds. 

When  the  six  months  had  gone  by,  he  came  to 
claim  her  hand.     She  was  quite  astonished.     "  You 


100  THE    WOMAN  BEATER 

promised  to  marry  me  at  the  end  of  six  months,"  he 
reminded  her. 

"  Surely  it  isn't  six  months  already,"  she  said. 

He  referred  her  to  the  calendar,  recalled  the  date 
of  her  husband's  death. 

"You  are  strangely  literal  for  a  poet,"  she  said. 
"  Of  course  I  said  six  months,  but  six  months  doesn't 
mean  twenty-six  weeks  by  the  clock.  All  I  meant 
was  that  a  decent  period  must  intervene.  But  even 
to  myself  it  seems  only  yesterday  that  poor  Harold 
was  walking  beside  me  in  the  Kurhaus  Park."  She 
burst  into  tears,  and  in  the  face  of  them  he  could  not 
pursue  the  argument. 

Gradually,  after  several  interviews  and  letters,  it 
was  agreed  that  they  should  wait  another  six  months. 

"She  is  right,"  he  reflected  again.  "We  have 
waited  so  long,  we  may  as  well  wait  a  little  longer 
and  leave  malice  no  handle." 

The  second  six  months  seemed  to  him  much  longer 
than  the  first.  The  charm  of  respectful  adoration 
had  lost  its  novelty,  and  once  again  his  breast  was 
racked  by  fitful  fevers  which  could  scarcely  calm 
themselves  even  by  conversion  into  sonnets.  The 
one  point  of  repose  was  that  shining  fixed  star  of 
marriage.  Still  smarting  under  Winifred's  reproach 
of  his  unpoetic  literality,  he  did  not  intend  to  force 
her  to  marry  him  exactly  at  the  end  of  the  twelve- 
month. But  he  was  determined  that  she  should  have 
no  later  than  this  exact  date  for  at  least  "  naming  the 


THE    WOMAN  BEATER  101 

day."  Not  the  most  punctilious  stickler  for  conven- 
tion, he  felt,  could  deny  that  Mrs.  Grundy's  claim 
had  been  paid  to  the  last  minute. 

The  publication  of  his  new  volume  —  containing 
the  Winifred  lyrics  —  had  served  to  colour  these 
months  of  intolerable  delay.  Even  the  reaction  of 
the  critics  against  his  poetry,  that  conventional  revolt 
against  every  second  volume,  that  parrot  cry  of  over- 
praise from  the  very  throats  that  had  praised  him, 
though  it  pained  and  perplexed  him,  was  perhaps 
really  helpful.  At  any  rate,  the  long  waiting  was 
over  at  last.  He  felt  like  Jacob  after  his  years  of 
service  for  Rachel. 

The  fateful  morning  dawned  bright  and  blue,  and, 
as  the  towers  of  Oxford  were  left  behind  him  he 
recalled  that  distant  Saturday  when  he  had  first  gone 
down  to  meet  the  literary  lights  of  London  in  his 
publisher's  salon.  How  much  older  he  was  now  than 
then  —  and  yet  how  much  younger  !  The  nebulous 
melancholy  of  youth,  the  clouds  of  philosophy,  had 
vanished  before  this  beautiful  creature  of  sunshine 
whose  radiance  cut  out  a  clear  line  for  his  future 
through  the  confusion  of  life. 

At  a  florist's  in  the  High  Street  of  Hampstead  he 
bought  a  costly  bouquet  of  white  flowers,  and  walked 
airily  to  the  house  and  rang  the  bell  jubilantly.  He 
could  scarcely  believe  his  ears  when  the  maid  told 
him  her  mistress  was  not  at  home.  How  dared  the 
girl  stare  at  him  so  impassively  ?     Did  she  not  know 


102  THE    WOMAN  BEATER 

by  what  appointment  —  on  what  errand  —  he  had 
come?  Had  he  not  written  to  her  mistress  a  week 
ago  that  he  would  present  himself  that  afternoon  ? 

"  Not  at  home  !  "  he  gasped.  "  But  when  will  she 
be  home  ?  " 

"  I  fancy  she  won't  be  long.  She  went  out  an 
hour  ago,  and  she  has  an  appointment  with  her 
dressmaker  at  five." 

"  Do  you  know  in  what  direction  she'd  have  gone  ?  " 

"Oh,  she  generally  walks  on  the  Heath  before  tea'." 

The  world  suddenly  grew  rosy  again.  "  I  will 
come  back  again,"  he  said.  Yes,  a  walk  in  this 
glorious  air  —  heathward  —  would  do  him  good. 

As  the  door  shut  he  remembered  he  might  have 
left  the  flowers,  but  he  would  not  ring  again,  and 
besides,  it  was,  perhaps,  better  he  should  present 
them  with  his  own  hand,  than  let  her  find  them 
on  the  hall  table.  Still,  it  seemed  rather  awkward 
to  walk  about  the  streets  with  a  bouquet,  and  he 
was  glad,  accidentally  to  strike  the  old  Hampstead 
Church,  and  to  seek  a  momentary  seclusion  in  pass- 
ing through  its  avenue  of  quiet  gravestones  on  his 
heathward  way. 

Mounting  the  few  steps,  he  paused  idly  a  moment 
on  the  verge  of  this  green  "God's-acre"  to  read  a 
perpendicular  slab  on  a  wall,  and  his  face  broadened 
into  a  smile  as  he  followed  the  absurdly  elaborate 
biography  of  a  rich,  self-made  merchant  who  had 
taught  himself  to  read.     "  Reader,  go  thou  and  do 


THE    WOMAN  BEATER  103 

likewise,"  was  the  delicious  bull  at  the  end.  As  he 
turned  away,  the  smile  still  lingering  about  his  lips, 
he  saw  a  dainty  figure  tripping  down  the  stony  grave- 
yard path,  and  though  he  was  somehow  startled  to 
find  her  still  in  black,  there  was  no  mistaking  Mrs. 
Glamorys.  She  ran  to  meet  him  with  a  glad  cry, 
which  filled  his  eyes  with  happy  tears. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  remember!  "  she  said,  as  she 
took  the  bouquet  from  his  unresisting  hand,  and 
turned  again  on  her  footsteps.  He  followed  her 
wonderingly  across  the  uneven  road  towards  a  narrow 
aisle  of  graves  on  the  left.  In  another  instant  she 
had  stooped  before  a  shining  white  stone,  and  laid 
his  bouquet  reverently  upon  it.  As  he  reached  her  side, 
he  saw  that  his  flowers  were  almost  lost  in  the  vast 
mass  of  floral  offerings  with  which  the  grave  of  the 
woman  beater  was  bestrewn. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  remember  the  anniversary," 
she  murmured  again. 

"How  could  I  forget  it  ? "  he  stammered,  aston- 
ished. "  Is  not  this  the  end  of  the  terrible  twelve- 
month ? " 

The  soft  gratitude  died  out  of  her  face.  "  Oh,  is 
that  what  you  were  thinking  of  ?  " 

"  What  else  ? "  he  murmured,  pale  with  conflicting 
emotions. 

"  What  else  !  I  think  decency  demanded  that  this 
day,  at  least,  should  be  sacred  to  his  memory.  Oh, 
what  brutes  men  are  !  "     And  she  burst  into  tears. 


104  THE    WOMAN  BEATER 

His  patient  breast  revolted  at  last.  "  You  said  he 
was  the  brute  !  "  he  retorted,  outraged. 

"  Is  that  your  chivalry  to  the  dead  ?  Oh,  my  poor 
Harold,  my  poor  Harold  !  " 

For  once  her  tears  could  not  extinguish  the  flame 
of  his  anger.  "  But  you  told  me  he  beat  you,"  he 
cried. 

"  And  if  he  did,  I  dare  say  I  deserved  it.  Oh,  my 
darling,  my  darling  !  "  She  laid  her  face  on  the  stone 
and  sobbed. 

John  Lefolle  stood  by  in  silent  torture.  As  he 
helplessly  watched  her  white  throat  swell  and  fall  with 
the  sobs,  he  was  suddenly  struck  by  the  absence  of 
the  black  velvet  band  —  the  truer  mourning  she  had 
worn  in  the  lifetime  of  the  so  lamented.  A  faint 
scar,  only  perceptible  to  his  conscious  eye,  added  to 
his  painful  bewilderment. 

At  last  she  rose  and  walked  unsteadily  forward. 
He  followed  her  in  mute  misery.  In  a  moment  or 
two  they  found  themselves  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
deserted  heath.  How  beautiful  stretched  the  gorsy 
rolling  Country  !  The  sun  was  setting  in  great  burn- 
ing furrows  of  gold  and  green  —  a  panorama  to  take 
one's  breath  away.  The  beauty  and  peace  of  Nature 
passed  into  the  poet's  soul. 

"  Forgive  me,  dearest,"  he  begged,  taking  her  hand. 

She  drew  it  away  sharply.  "  I  cannot  forgive  you. 
You  have  shown  yourself  in  your  true  colours." 

Her  unreasonableness  angered  him  again.     "  What 


THE    WOMAN  BEATER  105 

do  you  mean  ?  I  only  came  in  accordance  with  our 
long-standing  arrangement.  You  have  put  me  off 
long  enough." 

"  It  is  fortunate  I  did  put  you  off  long  enough  to 
discover  what  you  are." 

He  gasped.  He  thought  of  all  the  weary  months 
of  waiting,  all  the  long  comedy  of  telegrams  and 
express  letters,  the  far-off  flirtations  of  the  cosy 
corner,  the  baffled  elopement  to  Paris.  "  Then  you 
won't  marry  me  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  marry  a  man  I  neither  love  nor  respect." 

"  You  don't  love  me  !  "  Her  spontaneous  kiss  in 
his  sober  Oxford  study  seemed  to  burn  on  his  angry 
lips. 

"  No,  I  never  loved  you." 

He  took  her  by  the  arms  and  turned  her  round 
roughly.  "  Look  me  in  the  face  and  dare  to  say  you 
have  never  loved  me." 

His  memory  was  buzzing  with  passionate  phrases 
from  her  endless  letters.  They  stung  like  a  swarm 
of  bees.  The  sunset  was  like  blood-red  mist  before 
his  eyes. 

"  I  have  never  loved  you,"  she  said  obstinately. 

"You  — !"  His  grasp  on  her  arms  tightened. 
He  shook  her. 

"  You  are  bruising  me,"  she  cried. 

His  grasp  fell  from  her  arms  as  though  they  were 
red-hot.     He  had  become  a  woman  beater. 


THE    ETERNAL    FEMININE 


He  wore  a  curious  costume,  representing  the  devil 
carrying  off  his  corpse  ;  but  I  recognised  him  at  once 
as  the  lesser  lion  of  a  London  evening  party  last 
season.  Then  he  had  just  returned  from  a  Polar 
expedition,  and  wore  the  glacier  of  civilisation  on  his 
breast.  To-night  he  was  among  the  maddest  of  the 
mad,  dancing  savagely  with  the  Bacchantes  of  the 
Latin  Quarter  at  the  art  students'  ball,  and  some  of 
his  fellow-Americans  told  me  that  he  was  the  best 
marine  painter  in  the  atelier  which  he  had  joined. 
More  they  did  not  pause  to  tell  me,  for  they  were 
anxious  to  celebrate  this  night  of  nights,  when,  in 
that  fine  spirit  of  equality  born  of  belonging  to  two 
Republics,  the  artist  lowers  himself  to  the  level  of 
his  model. 

The  young  Arctic  explorer,  so  entirely  at  home  in 
this  more  tropical  clime,  had  relapsed  into  respecta- 
bility when  I  spoke  to  him.  He  was  sitting  at  a 
supper-table  smoking  a  cigarette,  and  gazing  some- 
what sadly  —  it  seemed  to  me  —  at  the  pandemoniac 
phantasmagoria  of  screaming  dancers,  the  glittering 
cosmopolitan  chaos  that  multiplied  itself  riotously  in 

100 


THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE  107 

the  mirrored  walls  of  the  great  flaring  ball-room, 
where  under-dressed  women,  waving  many-coloured 
paper  lanterns,  rode  on  the  shoulders  of  grotesquely- 
clad  men  prancing  to  joyous  music.  For  some  time 
he  had  been  trying  hard  to  get  some  one  to  take  the 
money  for  his  supper  ;  but  the  frenzied  waiters  sus- 
pected he  was  clamouring  for  something  to  eat,  and 
would  not  be  cajoled  into  attention. 

Moved  by  an  impulse  of  mischief,  I  went  up  to 
him  and  clapped  him  on  his  corpse,  which  he  wore 
behind. 

There  was  a  death-mask  of  papier-mache  on  the 
back  of  his  head  with  appropriate  funereal  drapings 
down  the  body. 

"I'll  take  your  money,  "  I  said. 

He  started,  and  turned  his  devil  upon  me.  The 
face  was  made  Mephistophelian,  and  the  front  half 
of  him  wore  scarlet. 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  laughing  roguishly,  when  he 
recognised  me.  "  It's  darned  queer  that  Paris  should 
be  the  place  where  they  refuse  to  take  the  devil's 
money." 

I  suggested  smilingly  that  it  was  the  corpse  they 
fought  shy  of. 

"  I  guess  not,"  he  retorted.  "  It's  dead  men's 
money  that  keeps  this  place  lively.  I  wish  I'd  had 
the  chance  of  some  anyhow ;  but  a  rolling  stone  gath- 
ers no  moss,  they  say  —  not  even  from  graveyards,  I 
suppose." 


108  THE   ETERNAL   FEMININE 

He  spoke  disconsolately,  in  a  tone  more  befitting 
the  back  than  the  front  of  him,  and  quite  out  of 
accord  with  the  reckless  revelry  around  him. 

"  Oh  !  you'll  make  lots  of  money  with  your  pic- 
tures,"  I  said  heartily. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  That's  the  chap  who's  going 
to  scoop  in  the  dollars,"  he  said,  indicating  a  brawny 
Frenchman  attired  in  a  blanket  that  girdled  his  loins, 
and  black  feathers  that  decorated  his  hair.  "  That 
fellow's  got  the  touch  of  Velasquez.  You  should  see 
the  portrait  he's  doing  for  the  Salon." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  much  art  in  his  costume, 
anyhow,"  I  retorted.  "Yours  is  an  inspiration  of 
genius." 

"Yes;  so  prophetic,  don't  you  know,"  he  replied 
modestly.  "  But  you  are  not  the  only  one  who  has 
complimented  me.  To  it  I  owe  the  proudest  moment 
of  my  life  —  when  I  shook  hands  with  a  European 
prince."     And  he  laughed  with  returning  merriment. 

"  Indeed  !  "  I  exclaimed.     "  With  which  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  I  see  your  admiration  for  my  rig  is  mount- 
ing. No  ;  it  wasn't  with  the  Prince  of  Wales  —  con- 
fess your  admiration  is  going  down  already.  Come, 
you  shall  guess.    Je  vous  le  domic  en  trois." 

After  teasing  me  a  little  he  told  me  it  was  the 
Kronprinds  of  Denmark.  "  At  the  Kunstiicr  Kar- 
neval  in  Copenhagen,"  he  explained  briefly.  His 
front  face  had  grown  sad  again. 

"  Did  you  study  art  in  Copenhagen  ?  "  I  inquired. 


THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE  109 

"  Yes,  before  I  joined  that  expedition,"  he  said. 
"  It  was  from  there  I  started." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  I  replied.  "I  remember  now. 
It  was  a  Danish  expedition.  But  what  made  you 
chuck  up  your  studies  so  suddenly?" 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know.  I  guess  I  was  just  about  sick 
of  most  things.  My  stars  !  Look  at  that  little  gypsy- 
girl  dancing  the  can-can  ;  isn't  she  fresh  ?  Isn't  she 
wonderful  ?  How  awful  to  think  she'll  be  used  up  in 
a  year  or  two  !  " 

"  I  suppose  there  was  a  woman  —  the  eternal  femi- 
nine," I  said,  sticking  him  to  the  point,  for  I  was 
more  interested  in  him  than  in  the  seething  saturna- 
lia, our  common  sobriety  amid  which  seemed  some- 
how to  raise  our  casual  acquaintanceship  to  the  plane 
of  confidential  friendship. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  there  was  a  woman,"  he  echoed  in 
low  tones.  "  The  eternal  feminine  !  "  And  a  strange 
unfathomable  light  leapt  into  his  eyes,  which  he 
raised  slightly  towards  the  gilded  ceiling,  where 
countless  lustres  glittered. 

"  Deceived  you,  eh  ?  "  I  said  lightly. 

His  expression  changed.  "  Deceived  me,  as  you 
say,"  he  murmured,  with  a  faint,  sad  smile,  that  made 
me  conjure  up  a  vision  of  a  passionate  lovely  face 
with  cruel  eyes. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  about  it?"  I  asked,  as  I 
tendered  him  a  fresh  cigarette,  for  while  we  spoke 
his    half-smoked    one   had    been    snatched   from  his 


110  THE   ETERNAL  FEMININE 

mouth    by    a    beautiful    Maenad,    who    whirled    off 
puffing  it. 

"  I  reckon  you'll  be  making  copy  out  of  it,"  he  said, 
his  smile  growing  whimsical. 

"  If  it's  good  enough,"  I  replied  candidly.  "That's 
why  I  am  here." 

"What  a  lovely  excuse!  But  there's  nothing  in 
my  affair  to  make  a  story  of." 

I  smiled  majestically. 

"  You  stick  to  your  art  —  leave  me  to  manage 
mine."     And  I  put  a  light  to  his  cigarette. 

"Ah,  but  you'll  be  disappointed  this  time,  I  war- 
rant," he  said  laughingly,  as  the  smoke  circled  round 
his  diabolically  handsome  face.  Then,  becoming 
serious  again,  he  went  on  :  "  It's  so  terribly  plebeian, 
yet  it  all  befell  through  that  very  Kunstner  Kameval 
I  was  telling  you  of  when  I  first  wore  this  composite 
costume  which  gained  me  the  smile  of  royalty.  It 
was  a  very  swell  affair,  of  course,  not  a  bit  like  this, 
but  it  was  given  in  hell." 

"  In  hell  !  "  I  cried,  startled. 

"  Yes.  '  Underverden '  they  call  it  in  their  lingo. 
The  ball-room  of  the  palace  (the  Palaect,  an  old  dis- 
used mansion)  was  got  up  to  represent  the  infernal 
regions  —  you  tumble?  —  and  everybody  had  to  dress 
appropriately.  That  was  what  gave  me  the  idea  of 
this  costume.  The  staircase  up  which  you  entered 
was  made  the  mouth  of  a  great  dragon,  and  as  you 
trod  on  the  first  step  his    eye    gleamed    blazes    and 


THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE  111 

brimstone.  There  were  great  monsters  all  about, 
and  dark  grottoes  radiating  around ;  and  when  you 
took  your  dame  into  one  of  them,  your  tread  flooded 
them  with  light.  If,  however,  the  cavalier  modestly 
conducted  his  mistress  into  one  of  the  lighted  caves, 
virtue  was  rewarded  by  instantaneous  darkness." 

"That  was  really  artistic,"  I  said,  laughing. 

"You  bet !  The  artists  spent  any  amount  of  money 
over  the  affair.  The  whole  of  Hades  bristled  with 
ingenious  devices  in  every  corner.  I  had  got  a 
couple  of  tickets,  and  had  designed  the  dress  of  my 
best  girl,  as  well  as  my  own,  and  the  morning  before 
(there  being  little  work  done  in  the  studios  that  day, 
as  you  may  well  imagine)  I  called  upon  her  to  see 
her  try  it  on.  To  my  chagrin  I  found  she  was  down 
with  influenza,  or  something  of  that  sort  appropriate 
to  the  bitter  winter  we  were  having.  And  it  did 
freeze  that  year,  by  Jove!  —  so  hard  that  Denmark 
and  Sweden  were  united  —  to  their  mutual  disgust,  I 
fancy  —  by  a  broad  causeway  of  ice.  I  remember,  as 
I  walked  back  from  the  girl's  house  towards  the  town 
along  the  Langelinie,  my  mortification  was  somewhat 
allayed  by  the  picturesque  appearance  of  the  Sound, 
in  whose  white  expanse  boats  of  every  species  and 
colour  were  embedded,  looking  like  trapped  crea- 
tures unable  to  stir  oar  or  sail.  But  as  I  left  the 
Promenade  and  came  into  the  narrow  old  streets  of 
the  town,  with  their  cobblestones  and  their  quaint, 
many-windowed  houses,  my  ill-humour  returned.      I 


112  THE  ETERNAL   FEMININE 

had  had  some  trouble  in  getting  the  second  ticket, 
and  now  it  looked  as  if  I  should  get  left.  I  went 
over  in  my  mind  the  girls  I  could  ask,  and  what  with 
not  caring  more  for  one  than  for  another,  and  not 
knowing  which  were  booked  already,  and  what  with 
the  imminence  of  the  ball,  I  felt  the  little  brains  I 
had  getting  addled  in  my  head.  At  last,  in  sheer 
despair,  I  had  what  is  called  a  happy  thought.  I 
resolved  to  ask  the  first  girl  of  my  acquaintance 
I  met  in  my  walk.  Instantly  my  spirits  rose  like  a 
thermometer  in  a  Turkish  bath.  The  clouds  of 
irresolution  rolled  away,  and  the  touch  of  adventure 
made  my  walk  joyous  again.  I  peered  eagerly  into 
every  female  face  I  met,  but  it  was  not  till  I  ap- 
proached the  market-place  that  I  knew  my  fate. 
Then,  turning  a  corner,  I  came  suddenly  and  vio- 
lently face  to  face  with  Froken  Jensen." 

He  paused  and  relit  his  cigarette,  and  the  madden- 
ing music  of  brass  instruments  and  brazen  creatures, 
which  his  story  had  shut  out,  crashed  again  upon  my 
ears.  "  I  reckon  if  you  were  telling  this,  you'd  stop 
here,"  he  said,  "and  put  down  'to  be  continued  in 
our  next.' '  There  seemed  a  trace  of  huskiness  in 
his  flippant  tones,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  keep  under 
some  genuine  emotion. 

"  Never  you  mind,"  I  returned,  smiling.  "  You're 
not  a  writer,  anyhow,  so  just  keep  straight  on." 

"Well,  Froken  Jensen  was  absolutely  the  ugliest 
girl    I    have    seen    in    all    my    globe-trottings.  .  .  . 


THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE  113 

On    second    thoughts,    that    is    the    place    t&    stop, 
isn't  it  ? " 

"  Not  at  all ;  it's  only  in  long  novels  one  stops  for 
refreshment.  So  go  ahead,  and  —  I  say  —  do  cut 
your  interruptions  a  la  Fielding  and  Thackeray. 
C'est   vicux  Jeu" 

"All  right,  don't  get  mad.  Froken  Jensen  had  the 
most  irregular  and  ungainly  features  that  ever  crip- 
pled a  woman's  career  ;  her  nose  was  —  But  no  !  I 
won't  describe  her,  poor  girl.  She  was  about  twenty- 
six  years  old,  but  one  of  those  girls  whose  years  no 
one  counts,  who  are  old  maids  at  seventeen.  Well, 
you  can  fancy  what  a  fix  I  was  in.  It  was  no  good 
pretending  to  myself  that  I  hadn't  seen  her,  for  we 
nearly  bowled  each  other  over  —  she  was  coming 
along  quick  trot  with  a  basket  on  her  arm  —  and  it 
seemed  kind  of  shuffling  to  back  out  of  my  promise  to 
her,  though  she  didn't  know  anything  about  it.  It 
was  like  betting  with  yourself  and  wanting  to  cheat 
yourself  when  you  lost.  I  felt  I  should  never  trust 
myself  again,  if  I  turned  welsher  —  that's  the  word, 
isn't  it?" 

"  It's  like  Jephtha,"  I  said.  "  He  swore,  you  know, 
he  would  sacrifice  the  first  creature  that  he  saw  on 
his  triumphant  return  from  the  wars,  and  his  daughter 
came  out  and  had  to  be  sacrificed." 

"Thank  you  for  the  compliment,"  he  said,  with  a 
grimace.  "  But  I'm  not  up  in  the  classics,  so  the 
comparison  didn't  strike    me.     But  what  did    strike 


114  THE  ETERNAL   FEMININE 

me,  after  the  first  moment  of  annoyance,  was  the 
humour  of  the  situation.  I  turned  and  walked  beside 
her  —  under  cover  of  an  elaborate  apology  for  my 
dashing  behaviour.  She  seemed  quite  concerned  at 
my  regret,  and  insisted  that  it  was  she  that  had 
dashed  —  it  was  her  marketing-day,  and  she  was  late. 
You  must  know  she  kept  a  boarding-house  for  art 
and  university  students,  and  it  was  there  that  I  had 
made  her  acquaintance,  when  I  went  to  dine  once  or 
twice  with  a  studio  chum  who  was  quartered  there. 
I  had  never  exchanged  two  sentences  with  her  before, 
as  you  can  well  imagine.  She  was  not  inviting  to 
the  artistic  eye ;  indeed,  I  rather  wondered  how  my 
friend  could  tolerate  her  at  the  head  of  the  table,  till 
he  jestingly  told  me  it  was  reckoned  off  the  bill. 
The  place  was  indeed  suited  to  the  student's  pocket. 
But  this  morning  I  was  surprised  at  the  sprightliness 
of  her  share  in  the  dialogue  of  mutual  apologies. 
Her  mind  seemed  as  alert  as  her  step,  her  voice  was 
pleasing  and  gentle,  and  there  was  a  refreshing  gaiety 
in  her  attitude  towards  the  situation. 

"  '  But  I  am  quite  sure  it  was  my  fault,'  I  wound 
up  rather  lamely  at  last,  '  and,  if  you  will  allow  me  to 
make  you  amends,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  send  you  a 
ticket  for  the  ball  to-morrow  night.' 

"She  stood  still.  'For  the  Kunstner  Karneval!' 
she  cried  eagerly,  while  her  poor  absurd  face  lit  up. 

"  '  Yes,  Froken  ;  and  I  shall  be  happy  to  escort 
you  there  if  you  will  give  me  the  pleasure.' 


THE  ETERNAL   FEMININE  115 

"She  looked  at  me  with  sudden  suspicion  —  the 
idea  that  I  was  chaffing  her  must  have  crossed  her 
mind.  I  felt  myself  flushing  furiously,  feeling  some- 
how half-guilty  by  my  secret  thoughts  of  her  a  few 
moments  ago.  We  had  arrived  at  the  Amagertorv 
—  the  market-place  —  and  I  recollect  getting  a  sud- 
den impression  of  the  quaint  stalls  and  the  pictu- 
resque Amager-vjomvsx  —  one  with  a  preternaturally 
hideous  face  —  and  the  frozen  canal  in  the  middle, 
with  the  ice-bound  fruit-boats  from  the  islands,  and 
the  red  sails  of  the  Norwegian  boats,  and  the  Egyp- 
tian architecture  of  Thorwaldsen's  Museum  in  the 
background,  making  up  my  mind  to  paint  it  all,  in 
the  brief  instant  before  I  added  in  my  most  con- 
vincing tones,  'The  Kronprinds  will  be  there.' 

"  Her  incredulous  expression  became  tempered  by 
wistfulness,  and  with  an  inspiration  I  drew  out  the 
ticket  and  thrust  it  into  her  hand.  I  saw  her  eyes 
fill  with  tears  as  she  turned  her  head  away  and 
examined  some  vegetables. 

" '  You  will  excuse  me,'  she  said  presently,  holding 
the  ticket  limply  in  her  hand,  '  but  I  fear  it  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  accept  your  kind  invitation.  You 
see  I  have  so  much  to  do,  and  my  children  will  be 
so  uncomfortable  without  me.' 

"  '  Your  children  will  be  at  the  ball  to  a  man,'  I 
retorted. 

" '  But  I  haven't  any  fancy  costume,'  she  pleaded, 
and  tendered  me  the  ticket  back.     It  struck  me  — 


116  THE  ETERNAL   FEMININE 

almost  with  a  pang  —  that  her  hand  was  bare  of 
glove,  and  the  workaday  costume  she  was  wearing 
was  ill  adapted  to  the  rigour  of  the  weather. 

"  '  Oh  !  Come  anyhow,'  I  said.  '  Ordinary  even- 
ing dress.     Of  course,  you  will  need  a  mask.' 

"  I  saw  her  lip  twitch  at  this  unfortunate  way  of 
putting  it,  and  hastened  to  affect  unconsciousness 
of  my  blunder. 

"  '  She  wouldn't,'  I  added  with  feigned  jocularity, 
nodding  towards  the  preternaturally  hideous  Amager- 
woman. 

"  '  Poor  old  thing,'  she  said  gently.  '  I  shall  be 
sorry  when  she  dies.' 

"  '  Why  ? '   I  murmured. 

" '  Because  then  I  shall  be  the  ugliest  woman  in 
Copenhagen,'  she  answered  gaily. 

"  Something  in  that  remark  sent  a  thrill  down 
my  backbone  —  there  seemed  an  infinite  pathos  and 
lovableness  in  her  courageous  recognition  of  facts. 
It  dispensed  me  from  the  painful  necessity  of  pre- 
tending to  be  unaware  of  her  ugliness  —  nay,  gave 
it  almost  a  cadiet — made  it  as  possible  a  topic  of 
light  conversation  as  beauty  itself.  I  pressed  her 
more  fervently  to  come,  and  at  last  she  consented, 
stipulating  only  that  I  should  call  for  her  rather  late, 
after  she  had  quite  finished  her  household  duties 
and  the  other  boarders  had  gone  off  to  the  ball. 

"  Well,  I  took  her  to  the  ball  (it  was  as  brilliant 
and  gay  as  this  without  being  riotous),   and  —  will 


THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE  117 

you  believe  it  ?  —  she  made  quite  a  little  sensation. 
With  a  black  domino  covering  her  impossible  face, 
and  a  simple  evening  dress,  she  looked  as  distingucc 
as  my  best  girl  would  have  done.  Her  skin  was 
good,  and  her  figure,  freed  from  the  distracting  com- 
panionship of  her  face,  was  rather  elegant,  while 
the  lively  humour  of  her  conversation  had  now  fair 
play.  She  danced  well,  too,  with  a  natural  grace. 
I  believe  she  enjoyed  her  incog,  almost  as  much  as 
the  ball,  and  I  began  to  feel  quite  like  a  fairy  god- 
mother who  was  giving  poor  little  Cinderella  an 
outing,  and  to  regret  that  I  had  not  the  power  to 
make  her  beautiful  for  ever,  or  at  least  to  make 
life  one  eternal  fancy  ball,  at  which  silk  masks 
might  veil  the  horrors  of  reality.  I  dare  say,  too, 
she  got  a  certain  kudos  through  dancing  so  much 
with  me,  for,  as  I  have  told  you  ad  nauseam,  this 
lovely  costume  of  mine  was  the  hit  of  the  evening, 
and  the  Kronprinds  asked  for  the  honour  of  an 
introduction  to  me.  It  was  rather  funny  —  the  cir- 
cuitous etiquette.  I  had  to  be  first  introduced  to 
his  aide-de-camp.  This  was  done  through  an  ac- 
tress of  the  Kongelige  Theatre,  with  whom  I  had 
been  polking  (he  knew  all  the  soubrettes,  that  aide- 
de-camp  !).  Then  he  introduced  me  to  the  Kron- 
prinds, and  I  held  out  my  hand  and  shook  his  royal 
paw  heartily.  He  was  very  gracious  to  me,  learning 
I  was  an  American,  and  complimented  me  on  my 
dress  and  my  dancing,  and  I  answered  him  affably  ; 


118  THE  ETERNAL   FEMININE 

and  the  natives,  gathered  round  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance, eyed  me  with  reverent  curiosity.  But  at  last, 
when  the  music  struck  up  again,  I  said,  '  Excuse  me, 
I  am  engaged  for  this  waltz !  '  and  hurried  off  to 
dance  with  my  Cinderella,  much  to  the  amazement 
of  the  Danes,  who  wondered  audibly  what  mighty 
foreign  potentate  His  Royal  Highness  had  been 
making  himself  agreeable  to." 

"  It  was  plain  enough,"  I  broke  in.  "  His  Satanic 
Majesty,  of  course." 

"I  am  glad  you  interrupted  me,"  he  said,  "for 
you  give  me  an  opening  to  state  that  the  Kron- 
prinds  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  story.  You,  of 
course,  would  have  left  him  out ;  but  I  am  only  an 
amateur,  and  I  get  my  threads  mixed." 

"Shut  up!"  I  cried.     "I  mean  —  go  on." 

"  Oh,  well,  perhaps,  he  has  got  a  little  to  do  with 
the  story,  after  all ;  for  after  that,  Froken  Jensen 
became  more  important  —  sharing  in  my  reflected 
glory  —  or,  perhaps,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  it 
was  only  then  that  she  became  important.  Any- 
way, important  she  was ;  and,  among  others,  Axel 
Larson  —  who  was  got  up  as  an  ancient  Gallic  war- 
rior, to  show  off  his  fine  figure  —  came  up  and  asked 
me  to  introduce  him.  I  don't  think  I  should  have 
done  so  ordinarily,  for  he  was  the  filthiest-mouthed 
fellow  in  the  atelier — a  great  swaggering  Don  Juan 
Baron  Munchausen  sort  of  chap,  handsome  enough 
in  his  raffish  way  —  a  tall,  stalwart  Swede,  blue-eved 


THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE  119 

and  yellow-haired.  But  the  fun  of  the  position  was 
that  Axel  Larson  was  one  of  my  Cinderella's  '  chil- 
dren,' so  I  could  not  resist  introducing  him  formally 
to  '  Froken  Jensen.'  His  happy  air  of  expectation 
was  replaced  by  a  scowl  of  surprise  and  disgust. 

"  '  What,  thou,  Ingeborg  ! '  he  cried. 

"  I  could  have  knocked  the  man  down.  The 
familiar  tutoiement,  the  Christian  name  —  these,  per- 
haps, he  had  a  right  to  use ;  but  nothing  could 
justify  the  contempt  of  his  tone.  It  reminded  me 
disagreeably  of  the  ugliness  I  had  nigh  forgotten. 
I  felt  Ingeborg's  arm  tremble  in  mine. 

"'Yes,  it  is  I,  Herr  Larson,'  she  said,  with  her 
wonted  gentleness,  and  almost  apologetically.  '  This 
gentleman  was  good  enough  to  bring  me.'  She 
spoke  as  if  her  presence  needed  explanation  —  with 
the  timidity  of  one  shut  out  from  the  pleasures  of 
life.  I  could  feel  her  poor  little  heart  fluttering 
wildly,  and  knew  that  her  face  was  alternating  from 
red  to  white  beneath  the  mask. 

"  Axel  Larson  shot  a  swift  glance  of  surprise  at 
me,  which  was  followed  by  a  more  malicious  bolt. 
'  I  congratulate  you,  Ingeborg,'  he  said,  '  on  the 
property  you  seem  to  have  come  into.'  It  was  a 
clever  double  entente  —  the  man  was  witty  after  his 
coarse  fashion  —  but  the  sarcasm  scarcely  stung 
either  of  us.  I,  of  course,  had  none  of  the  motives 
the  cad  imagined ;  and  as  for  Ingeborg,  I  fancy  she 
thought  he  alluded  merely  to  the  conquest  of  myself, 


120  THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE 

and  was  only  pained  by  the  fear  I  might  resent  so 
ludicrous  a  suggestion.  Having  thrown  the  shadow 
of  his  cynicism  over  our  innocent  relation,  Axel 
turned  away  highly  pleased  with  himself,  rudely 
neglecting  to  ask  Ingeborg  for  a  dance.  I  felt 
like  giving  him  '  Hail  Columbia,'  but  I  restrained 
myself. 

"Some  days  after  this  —  in  response  to  Ingeborg's 
grateful  anxiety  to  return  my  hospitality  —  I  went  to 
dine  with  her  'children.'  I  found  Axel  occupying 
the  seat  of  honour,  and  grumbling  at  the  soup  and 
the  sauces  like  a  sort  of  autocrat  of  the  dinner-table, 
and  generally  making  things  unpleasant.  I  had  to 
cling  to  my  knife  and  fork  so  as  not  to  throw  the 
water-bottle  at  his  head.  Ingeborg  presided  meekly 
over  the  dishes,  her  ugliness  more  rampant  than 
ever  after  the  illusion  of  the  mask.  I  remembered 
now  he  had  been  disagreeable  when  I  had  dined 
there  before,  though,  not  being  interested  in  Inge- 
borg then,  I  had  not  resented  his  ill-humour,  con- 
tenting myself  with  remarking  to  my  friend  that  I 
understood  now  why  the  Danes  disliked  the  Swedes 
so  much  —  a  generalisation  that  was  probably  as 
unjust  as  most  of  one's  judgments  of  other  peoples. 
After  dinner  I  asked  her  why  she  tolerated  the 
fellow.  She  flushed  painfully  and  murmured  that 
times  were  hard.  I  protested  that  she  could  easily 
get  another  boarder  to  replace  him,  but  she  said 
Axel   Larson  had  been  there  so  long  —  nearly  two 


THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE  121 

years  —  and  was  comfortable,  and  knew  the  ways 
of  the  house,  and  it  would  be  very  discourteous  to 
ask  him  to  go.  I  insisted  that  rather  than  see  her 
suffer  I  would  move  into  Larson's  room  myself,  but 
she  urged  tremulously  that  she  didn't  suffer  at  all 
from  his  rudeness,  it  was  only  his  surface-manner; 
it  deceived  strangers,  but  there  was  a  good  heart 
underneath,  as  who  could  know  better  than  she  ? 
Besides,  he  was  a  genius  with  the  brush,  and  every- 
body knew  well  that  geniuses  were  bears.  And, 
finally,  she  could  not  afford  to  lose  boarders  —  there 
were  already  two  vacancies. 

"It  ended  —  as  I  dare  say  you  have  guessed  —  by 
my  filling  up  one  of  those  two  vacancies,  partly  to 
help  her  pecuniarily,  partly  to  act  as  a  buffer  be- 
tween her  and  the  swaggering  Swede.  He  was 
quite  flabbergasted  by  my  installation  in  the  house, 
and  took  me  aside  in  the  atelier  and  asked  me  if 
Ingeborg  had  really  come  into  any  money.  I  was 
boiling  over,  but  I  kept  the  lid  on  by  main  force, 
and  answered  curtly  that  Ingeborg  had  a  heart  of 
gold.  He  laughed  boisterously,  and  said  one  could 
not  raise  anything  on  that;  adding,  with  an  air  of 
authority,  that  he  believed  I  spoke  the  truth,  for  it 
was  not  likely  the  hag  would  have  kept  anything 
from  her  oldest  boarder.  '  I  dare  say  the  real  truth 
is,'  he  wound  up,  'that  you  are  hard  up,  like  me, 
and  want  to  do  the  thing  cheap.' 

"  '  I  wasn't  aware  you  were  hard  up,'  I  said,  for 


122  THE  ETERNAL   FEMININE 

I  had  seen  him  often  enough  flaunting  it  in  the 
theatres  and  restaurants. 

"  '  Not  for  luxuries,'  he  retorted  with  a  guffaw,  '  but 
for  necessities  — yes.  And  there  comes  in  the  value 
of  our  domestic  eyesore.  Why,  I  haven't  paid  her  a 
s killing  for  six  months  !  ' 

"  I  thought  of  poor  Ingeborg's  thin  winter  attire, 
and  would  have  liked  to  reply  with  my  fist,  only  the 
reply  didn't  seem  quite  logical.  It  was  not  my  busi- 
ness, after  all ;  but  I  thought  I  understood  now  why 
Ingeborg  was  so  reluctant  to  part  with  him  —  it  is 
the  immemorial  fallacy  of  economical  souls  to  throw 
good  money  after  bad ;  though  when  I  saw  the  pa- 
tience with  which  she  bore  his  querulous  complaints 
and  the  solicitude  with  which  she  attended  to  his 
wants,  I  sometimes  imagined  he  had  some  secret 
hold  over  her.  Often  I  saw  her  cower  and  flush 
piteously,  as  with  terror,  before  his  insolent  gaze. 
But  I  decided  finally  his  was  merely  the  ascendency 
of  the  strong  over  the  weak  —  of  the  bully  over  his 
victims,  who  serve  him  more  loyally  because  he  kicks 
them.  The  bad-tempered  have  the  best  of  it  in  this 
vile  world.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  grew  to  pity  that 
poor  girl.  Living  in  her  daily  presence,  I  marked 
the  thousand  and  one  trials  of  which  her  life  was 
made  up,  all  borne  with  the  same  sweetness  and 
good-humour.  I  discovered  that  she  had  a  bed-rid- 
den mother,  whom  she  kept  in  the  attic,  and  whom 
she  stole  up  to  attend  to    fifty  times  a  day,  sitting 


THE   ETERNAL  FEMININE  123 

with  her  when  her  work  was  done  and  the  moonlight 
on  the  Sound  tempted  one  to  be  out  enjoying  one's 
youth.  Alone  she  managed  and  financed  the  entire 
establishment,  aided  only  by  a  little  maid-of-all-work, 
just  squeezing  out  a  scanty  living  for  herself  and  her 
mother.  If  ever  there  was  an  angel  on  earth  it  was 
Ingeborg  Jensen.  I  tell  you,  when  I  see  the  angels 
of  the  Italian  masters  I  feel  they  are  all  wrong  :  I 
don't  want  flaxen-haired  cherubs  to  give  me  an 
idea  of  heaven  in  this  hell  of  a  world.  I  just  want 
to  see  good  honest  faces,  full  of  suffering  and  sacri- 
fice, and  if  ever  I  paint  an  angel  its  phiz  shall  have 
the  unflinching  ugliness  of  Ingeborg  Jensen,  God 
bless  her  !  To  be  near  her  was  to  live  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  purity  and  pity  and  tenderness,  and  every- 
thing that  is  sweet  and  sacred." 

As  he  spoke  I  became  suddenly  aware  that  the 
gas-lights  were  paling,  and  glancing  towards  the  win- 
dow on  my  left  I  saw  the  splendour  of  the  sunrise 
breaking  fresh  and  clear  over  the  city  of  diabolical 
night,  where  in  the  sombre  eastern  sky  — 

"God  made  himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn." 

A  breath  of  coolness  and  purity  seemed  to  waft  into 
the  feverish  ball-room ;  a  ray  of  fresh  morning  sun- 
light. I  looked  curiously  at  the  young  artist.  He 
seemed  transfigured.  I  could  scarcely  realise  that 
an  hour  ago  he  had  been  among  the  rowdiest  of  the 
Comas  crew,  whose  shrieks  and  laughter  still  rang  all 


124  THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE 

around  us.  Even  his  duplex  costume  seemed  to  have 
grown  subtly  symbolical,  the  diabolical  part  typical  of 
all  that  is  bestial  and  selfish  in  man,  the  death-mask 
speaking  silently  of  renunciation  and  the  peace  of 
the  tomb.  He  went  on,  after  a  moment  of  emotion  : 
"  They  say  that  pity  is  akin  to  love,  but  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  ever  loved  her,  for  I  suppose  that  love  involves 
passion,  and  I  never  arrived  at  that.  I  only  came  to 
feel  that  I  wanted  to  be  with  her  always,  to  guard 
her,  to  protect  her,  to  work  for  her,  to  suffer  for  her 
if  need  be,  to  give  her  life  something  of  the  joy  and 
sweetness  that  God  owed  her.  I  felt  I  wasn't  much 
use  in  the  world,  and  that  would  be  something  to  do. 
And  so  one  day  —  though  not  without  much  mental 
tossing,,  for  we  are  curiously,  complexly  built,  and  I 
dreaded  ridicule  and  the  long  years  of  comment  from 
unsympathetic  strangers  —  I  asked  her  to  be  my 
wife. 

"  Her  surprise,  her  agitation,  was  painful  to  wit- 
ness. But  she  was  not  incredulous,  as  before;  she 
had  learned  to  know  that  I  respected  her.  Never- 
theless, her  immediate  impulse  was  one  of  refusal. 

"'It  cannot  be/  she  said,  and  her  bosom  heaved 
spasmodically. 

"I  protested  that  it  could  and  would  be,. but  she 
shook  her  head. 

"  '  You  are  very  kind  to  me  !  God  bless  you  ! '  she 
said.  '  You  have  always  been  kind  to  me.  But  you 
do  not  love  me.' 


THE  ETERNAL   FEMININE  125 

"  I  assured  her  I  did,  and  in  that  moment  I 
dare  say  I  spoke  the  truth.  For  in  that  moment  of 
her  reluctance  and  diffidence  to  snatch  at  proffered 
joy,  when  the  suggestion  of  rejection  made  her  ap- 
pear doubly  precious,  she  seemed  to  me  the  most 
adorable  creature  in  the  world. 

"  But  still  she  shook  her  head.  '  No  one  can  love 
me,'  she  said  sadly. 

"  I  took  her  hand  in  mute  protestation,  but  she 
withdrew  it  gently. 

"  '  I  cannot  be  your  wife,'  she  persisted. 

" '  Why  not,  Ingeborg  ?  '   I  asked  passionately. 

"  She  hesitated,  panting  and  colouring  painfully, 
then  —  the  words  are  echoing  in  my  brain  —  she 
answered  softly,  *Jeg  kan  ikkc  clskc  Dem  '  (I  cannot 
love  you). 

"It  was  like  a  shaft  of  lightning  piercing  me,  rend- 
ing and  illuminating.  In  my  blind  conceit  the  ob- 
verse side  of  the  question  had  never  presented  itself 
to  me.  I  had  taken  it  for  granted  I  had  only  to  ask 
to  be  jumped  at.  But  now,  in  one  great  flash  of  in- 
sight, I  seemed  to  see  everything  plain. 

" '  You  love  Axel  Larson  ! '  I  cried  chokingly,  as  I 
thought  of  all  the  insults  he  had  heaped  upon  her  in 
her  presence,  all  the  sneers  and  vile  jocosities  of 
which  she  had  been  the  butt  behind  her  back,  in 
return  for  the  care  she  had  lavished  upon  his  com- 
fort, for  her  pinching  to  make  both  ends  meet  with- 
out the  money  he  should  have  contributed. 


126  THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE 

"  She  did  not  reply.  The  tears  came  into  her  eyes, 
she  let  her  head  droop  on  her  heaving  breast.  As  in 
those  visions  that  are  said  to  come  to  the  dying,  I 
saw  Axel  Larson  feeding  day  by  day  at  her  board, 
brutally  conscious  of  her  passion,  yet  not  deigning 
even  to  sacrifice  her  to  it;  I  saw  him  ultimately 
leave  the  schools  and  the  town  to  carry  his  clever 
brush  to  the  welcome  of  a  wider  world,  without  a 
word  or  a  thought  of  thanks  for  the  creature  who  had 
worshipped  and  waited  upon  him  hand  and  foot ;  and 
then  I  saw  her  life  from  day  to  day  unroll  its  long 
monotonous  folds,  all  in  the  same  pattern,  all  drab 
duty  and  joyless  sacrifice,  and  hopeless  undying 
love. 

"  I  took  her  hand  again  in  a  passion  of  pity.  She 
understood  my  sympathy,  and  the  hot  tears  started 
from  her  eyes  and  rolled  down  her  poor  wan  cheeks. 
And  in  that  holy  moment  I  saw  into  the  inner  heaven 
of  woman's  love,  which  purifies  and  atones  for  the 
world.     The  eternal  feminine  !  " 

The  sentimental  young  artist  ceased,  and  buried 
his  devil's  face  in  his  hands.  I  looked  around  and 
started.  We  were  alone  in  the  abandoned  supper- 
room.  The  gorgeously  grotesque  company  was 
seated  in  a  gigantic  circle  upon  the  ball-room  floor 
furiously  applauding  the  efforts  of  two  sweetly 
pretty  girls  who  were  performing  the  celebrated 
danse  die  ventre. 

"  The  eternal  feminine  !  "  I  echoed  pensively. 


THE   SILENT   SISTERS 


They  had  quarrelled  in  girlhood,  and  mutually  de- 
clared their  intention  never  to  speak  to  each  other 
again,  wetting  and  drying  their  forefingers  to  the 
accompaniment  of  an  ancient  childish  incantation, 
and  while  they  lived  on  the  paternal  farm  they  kept 
their  foolish  oath  with  the  stubbornness  of  a  slow 
country  stock,  despite  the  alternate  coaxing  and 
chastisement  of  their  parents,  notwithstanding  the 
perpetual  everyday  contact  of  their  lives,  through 
every  vicissitude  of  season  and  weather,  of  sowing 
and  reaping,  of  sun  and  shade,  of  joy  and  sorrow. 

Death  and  misfortune  did  not  reconcile  them,  and 
when  their  father  died  and  the  old  farm  was  sold  up, 
they  travelled  to  London  in  the  same  silence,  by  the 
same  train,  in  search  of  similar  situations.  Service 
separated  them  for  years,  though  there  was  only  a 
stone's  throw  between  them.  They  often  stared  at 
each  other  in  the  streets. 

Honor,  the  elder,  married  a  local  artisan,  and  two 
and  a  half  years  later,  Mercy,  the  younger,  married  a 
fellow-workman  of  Honor's  husband.  The  two  hus- 
bands were  friends,  and  often  visited  each  other's 
houses,  which  were  on  opposite   sides  of  the    same 

127 


128  THE  SILENT  SISTERS 

sordid  street,  and  the  wives  made  them  welcome. 
Neither  Honor  nor  Mercy  suffered  an  allusion  to  their 
breach  ;  it  was  understood  that  their  silence  must 
be  received  in  silence.  Each  of  the  children  had  a 
quiverful  of  children  who  played  and  quarrelled 
together  in  the  streets  and  in  one  another's  houses, 
but  not  even  the  street  affrays  and  mutual  grievances 
of  the  children  could  provoke  the  mothers  to  words. 
They  stood  at  their  doors  in  impotent  fury,  almost 
bursting  with  the  torture  of  keeping  their  mouths 
shut  against  the  effervescence  of  angry  speech. 
When  either  lost  a  child  the  other  watched  the 
funeral  from   her  window,  dumb   as  the  mutes. 

The  years  rolled  on,  and  still,  the  river  of  silence 
flowed  between  their  lives.  Their  good  looks  faded, 
the  burden  of  life  and  child-bearing  was  heavy  upon 
them.  Grey  hairs  streaked  their  brown  tresses,  then 
brown  hairs  streaked  their  grey  tresses.  The  puckers 
of  age  replaced  the  dimples  of  youth.  The  years 
rolled  on,  and  Death  grew  busy  among  the  families. 
Honor's  husband  died,  and  Mercy  lost  a  son,  who 
died  a  week  after  his  wife.  Cholera  took  several  of 
the  younger  children.  But  the  sisters  themselves 
lived  on,  bent  and  shrivelled  by  toil  and  sorrow,  even 
more  than  by  the  slow  frost  of  the  years. 

Then  one  day  Mercy  took  to  her  death-bed.  An 
internal  disease,  too  long  neglected,  would  carry  her 
off  within  a  week.  So  the  doctor  told  Jim,  Mercy's 
husband. 


THE   SILENT  SISTERS  129 

Through  him,  the  news  travelled  to  Honor's  eldest 
son,  who  still  lived  with  her.  By  the  evening  it 
reached  Honor. 

She  went  upstairs  abruptly  when  her  son  told  her, 
leaving  him  wondering  at  her  stony  aspect.  When 
she  came  down  she  was  bonneted  and  shawled.  He 
was  filled  with  joyous  amaze  to  see  her  hobble  across 
the  street  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  pass  over 
her  sister  Mercy's  threshold. 

As  Honor  entered  the  sick-room,  with  pursed  lips,  a 
light  leapt  into  the  wasted,  wrinkled  countenance  of  the 
dying  creature.  She  raised  herself  slightly  in  bed,  her 
lips  parted,  then  shut  tightly,  and  her  face  darkened. 

Honor  turned  angrily  to  Mercy's  husband,  who 
hung  about  impotently.  "  Why  did  you  let  her  run 
down  so  low  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  didn't  know,"  the  old  man  stammered,  taken 
aback  by  her  presence  even  more  than  by  her  ques- 
tion.    "  She  was  always   a  woman  to    say  nothin'." 

Honor  put  him  impatiently  aside  and  examined 
the  medicine  bottle  on  the  bedside  table. 

"  Isn't  it  time  she  took  her  dose  ?  " 

"  I  dessay." 

Honor  snorted  wrathfully.  "  What's  the  use  of  a 
man  ? "  she  inquired,  as  she  carefully  measured  out 
the  fluid  and  put  it  to  her  sister's  lips,  which  opened 
to  receive  it,  and  then  closed  tightly  again. 

"  How  is  your  wife  feeling  now  ?  "  Honor  asked 
after  a  pause. 


130  THE   SILENT  SISTERS 

"  How  are  you,  now,  Mercy  ? "  asked  the  old  man 
awkwardly. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head.  "  I'm  a-goin'  fast, 
Jim,"  she  grumbled  weakly,  and  a  tear  of  self-pity 
trickled  down  her  parchment  cheek. 

"What  rubbidge  she  do  talk!"  cried  Honor, 
sharply.  "  Why  d'ye  stand  there  like  a  tailor's 
dummy  ?     Why  don't  you  tell  her  to  cheer  up  ?  " 

"  Cheer  up,  Mercy,  "  quavered  the  old  man, 
hoarsely. 

But  Mercy  groaned  instead,  and  turned  fretfully 
on  her  other  side,  with  her  face  to  the  wall. 

"  I'm  too  old,  I'm  too  old,"  she  moaned,  "  this  is 
the  end  o'  me." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ? "  Honor  asked  Jim, 
angrily,  as  she  smoothed  his  wife's  pillow.  "  She 
was  always  conceited  about  her  age,  settin'  herself 
up  as  the  equals  of  her  elders,  and  here  am  I,  her 
elder  sister,  as  carried  her  in  my  arms  when  I  was 
five  and  she  was  two,  still  hale  and  strong,  and  with 
no  mind  for  underground  for  many  a  day.  Nigh 
three  times  her  age  I  was  once,  mind  you,  and 
now  she  has  the  imperence  to  talk  of  dyin'  before 
me. 

She  took  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl.  "  Send  one  o' 
the  kids  to  tell  my  boy  I'm  stayin'  here,"  she  said, 
"and  then  just  you  get  'em  all  to  bed  —  there's  too 
much  noise  about  the  house." 

The  children,  who  were  orphaned  grandchildren  of 


THE   SILENT  SISTERS  131 

the  dying  woman,  were  sent  to  bed,  and  then  Jim 
himself  was  packed  off  to  refresh  himself  for  the 
next  day's  labours,  for  the  poor  old  fellow  still  dod- 
dered about  the  workshop. 

The  silence  of  the  sick-room  spread  over  the  whole 
house.  About  ten  o'clock  the  doctor  came  again  and 
instructed  Honor  how  to  alleviate  the  patient's  last 
hours.  All  night  long  she  sat  watching  her  dying 
sister,  hand  and  eye  alert  to  anticipate  every  wish. 
No  word  broke  the  awful  stillness. 

The  first  thing  in  the  morning,  Mercy's  married 
daughter,  the  only  child  of  hers  living  in  London, 
arrived  to  nurse  her  mother.  But  Honor  indignantly 
refused  to  be  dispossessed. 

"A  nice  daughter  you  are,"  she  said,  "to  leave 
your  mother  lay  a  day  and  a  night  without  a  sight 
o'  your  ugly  face." 

"  I  had  to  look  after  the  good  man,  and  the  little 
'uns,"  the  daughter  pleaded. 

"  Then  what  do  you  mean  by  desertin'  them  now  ?  " 
the  irate  old  woman  retorted.  "  First  you  deserts 
your  mother,  and  then  your  husband  and  children. 
You  must  go  back  to  them  as  needs  your  care.  I 
carried  your  mother  in  my  arms  before  you  was 
born,  and  if  she  wants  anybody  else  now  to  look 
after  her,  let  her  just  tell  me  so,  and  I'll  be  off  in 
a  brace  o'  shakes." 

She  looked  defiantly  at  the  yellow,  dried-up  crea- 
ture in  the  bed.     Mercy's  withered  lips  twitched,  but 


132  THE  SILENT  SISTERS 

no  sound  came  from  them.  Jim,  strung  up  by  the 
situation,  took  the  word.  "  You  can't  do  no  good  up 
here,  the  doctor  says.  You  might  look  after  the 
kids  downstairs  a  bit,  when  you  can  spare  an  hour, 
and  I've  got  to  go  to  the  shop.  I'll  send  you  a 
telegraph  if  there's  a  change,"  he  whispered  to  the 
daughter,  and  she,  not  wholly  discontented  to  return 
to  her  living  interests,  kissed  her  mother,  lingered  a 
little,  and  then  stole  quietly  away. 

All  that  clay  the  old  women  remained  together  in 
solemn  silence,  broken  only  by  the  doctor's  visit. 
He  reported  that  Mercy  might  last  a  couple  of  days 
more.  In  the  evening  Jim  replaced  his  sister-in-law, 
who  slept  perforce.  At  midnight  she  reappeared 
and  sent  him  to  bed.  The  sufferer  tossed  about 
restlessly.  At  half-past  two  she  awoke,  and  Honor 
fed  her  with  some  broth,  as  she  would  have  fed  a 
baby.  Mercy,  indeed,  looked  scarcely  bigger  than 
an  infant,  and  Honor  only  had  the  advantage  of  her 
by  being  puffed  out  with  clothes.  A  church  clock  in 
the  distance  struck  three.  Then  the  silence  fell 
deeper.  The  watcher  drowsed,  the  lamp  nickered, 
tossing  her  shadow  about  the  walls  as  if  she,  too, 
were  turning  feverishly  from  side  to  side.  A  strange 
ticking  made  itself  heard  in  the  wainscoting.  Mercy 
sat  up  with  a  scream  of  terror.  "Jim!"  she 
shrieked,   "  Jim  !  " 

Honor  started  up,  opened  her  mouth  to  cry 
"Hush!"    then    checked    herself,    suddenly    frozen. 


THE  SILENT  SISTERS  133 

"Jim,"  cried  the  dying  woman,  "listen!  Is  that 
the  death  spider  ?  " 

Honor  listened,  her  blood  curdling.  Then  she 
went  towards  the  door  and  opened  it.  "Jim,"  she 
said,  in  low  tones,  speaking  towards  the  landing,  "  tell 
her  it's  nothing,  it's  only  a  mouse.  She  was  always 
a  nervous  little  thing."  And  she  closed  the  door 
softly,  and  pressing  her  trembling  sister  tenderly 
back  on  the  pillow,  tucked  her  up  snugly  in  the 
blanket. 

Next  morning,  when  Jim  was  really  present,  the 
patient  begged  pathetically  to  have  a  grandchild  with 
her  in  the  room,  day  and  night.  "  Don't  leave  me 
alone  again,"  she  quavered,  "  don't  leave  me  alone 
with  not  a  soul  to  talk  to."  Honor  winced,  but  said 
nothing. 

The  youngest  child,  who  did  not  have  to  go  to 
school,  was  brought — -a  pretty  little  boy  with  brown 
curls,  which  the  sun,  streaming  through  the  panes, 
turned  to  gold.  The  morning  passed  slowly.  About 
noon  Mercy  took  the  child's  hand,  and  smoothed  his 
curls. 

"  My  sister  Honor  had  golden  curls  like  that,"  she 
whispered. 

"They  were  in  the  family,  Bobby,"  Honor 
answered.  "Your  granny  had  them,  too,  when  she 
was  a  girl." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Mercy's  eyes  were  half- 
glazed.     But  her  vision  was  inward  now. 


134  THE   SILENT  SISTERS 

"  The  mignonette  will  be  growin'  in  the  gardens, 
Bobby,"  she  murmured. 

"  Yes,  Bobby,  and  the  heart's-ease,"  said  Honor, 
softly.  "  We  lived  in  the  country,  you  know, 
Bobby." 

"There  is  flowers  in  the  country,"  Bobby  declared 
gravely. 

"Yes,  and  trees,"  said  Honor.  "I  wonder  if  your 
granny  remembers  when  we  were  larruped  for  stealin' 
apples." 

"Ay,  that  I  do,  Bobby,  he,  he,"  croaked  the  dying 
creature,  with  a  burst  of  enthusiasm.  "We  was  a 
pair  o'  tomboys.  The  varmer  he  ran  after  us  cryin' 
'  Ye  !  ye !  '  but  we  wouldn't  take  no  gar.  He,  he, 
he!" 

Honor  wept  at  the  laughter.  The  native  idiom, 
unheard  for  half  a  century,  made  her  face  shine 
under  the  tears.  "  Don't  let  your  granny  excite 
herself,  Bobby.  Let  me  give  her  her  drink."  She 
moved  the  boy  aside,  and  Mercy's  lips  automatically 
opened  to  the  draught. 

"Tom  was  wi'  us,  Bobby,"  she  gurgled,  still  vibrat- 
ing with  amusement,  "  and  he  tumbled  over  on  the 
heather.     He,  he  !  " 

"Tom  is  dead  this  forty  year,  Bobby,"  whispered 
Honor. 

Mercy's  head  fell  back,  and  an  expression  of 
supreme  exhaustion  came  over  the  face.  Half  an 
hour    passed.     Bobby    was    called    down    to    dinner. 


THE   SILENT  SISTERS  135 

The  doctor  had  been  sent  for.  The  silent  sisters 
were  alone.     Suddenly  Mercy  sat  up  with  a  jerk. 

"  It  be  growin'  dark,  Tom,"  she  said  hoarsely, 
"  'baint  it  time  to  call  the  cattle  home  from  the 
ma'shes  ? " 

"  She's  talkin'  rubbidge  again,"  said  Honor,  chok- 
ingly.    "Tell  her  she's  in  London,  Bobby." 

A  wave  of  intelligence  traversed  the  sallow  face. 
Still  sitting  up,  Mercy  bent  towards  the  side  of  the 
bed.  "  Ah,  is  Honor  still  there  ?  Kiss  me —  Bobby." 
Her  hands  groped  blindly.  Honor  bent  down 
and  the  old  women's  withered  lips  met. 

And  in  that  kiss  Mercy  passed  away  into  the 
greater  Silence. 


THE    BIG    BOW    MYSTERY 


I 


On  a  memorable  morning  of  early  December,  Lon- 
don opened  its  eyes  on  a  frigid  grey  mist.  There  are 
mornings  when  King  Fog  masses  his  molecules  of 
carbon  in  serried  squadrons  in  the  city,  while  he 
scatters  them  tenuously  in  the  suburbs ;  so  that  your 
morning  train  may  bear  you  from  twilight  to  dark- 
ness. But  to-day  the  enemy's  manoeuvring  was  more 
monotonous.  From  Bow  even  unto  Hammersmith 
there  draggled  a  dull,  wretched  vapour,  like  the 
wraith  of  an  impecunious  suicide  come  into  a  fortune 
immediately  after  the  fatal  deed.  The  barometers 
and  thermometers  had  sympathetically  shared  its 
depression,  and  their  spirits  (when  they  had  any) 
were  low.     The  cold  cut  like  a  many-bladed  knife. 

Mrs.  Drabdump,  of  1 1  Glover  Street,  Bow,  was 
one  of  the  few  persons  in  London  whom  fog  did 
not  depress.  She  went  about  her  work  quite  as  cheer- 
lessly as  usual.  She  had  been  among  the  earliest 
to  be  aware  of  the  enemy's  advent,  picking  out 
the  strands  of  fog  from  the  coils  of  darkness  the 
moment  she  rolled  up  her  bedroom  blind  and  un- 
veiled the   sombre    picture   of   the    winter    morning. 

136 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  137 

She  knew  that  the  fog  had  come  to  stay  for  the  day 
at  least,  and  that  the  gas-bill  for  the  quarter  was 
going  to  beat  the  record  in  high-jumping.  She  also 
knew  that  this  was  because  she  Had  allowed  her  new 
gentleman  lodger,  Mr.  Arthur  Constant,  to  pay  a 
fixed  sum  of  a  shilling  a  week  for  gas,  instead  of 
charging  him  a  proportion  of  the  actual  account  for 
the  whole  house.  The  meteorologists  might  have 
saved  the  credit  of  their  science  if  they  had  reck- 
oned with  Mrs.  Drabdump's  next  gas-bill  when  they 
predicted  the  weather  and  made  "  Snow  "  the  favour- 
ite, and  said  that  "  Fog  "  would  be  nowhere.  Fog 
was  everywhere,  yet  Mrs.  Drabdump  took  no  credit 
to  herself  for  her  prescience.  Mrs.  Drabdump  in- 
deed took  no  credit  for  anything,  paying  her  way 
along  doggedly,  and  struggling  through  life  like  a 
wearied  swimmer  trying  to  touch  the  horizon.  That 
things  always  went  as  badly  as  she  had  foreseen 
did  not  exhilarate  her  in  the  least. 

Mrs.  Drabdump  was  a  widow.  Widows  are  not 
born  but  made,  else  you  might  have  fancied  Mrs. 
Drabdump  had  always  been  a  widow.  Nature  had 
given  her  that  tall,  spare  form,  and  that  pale,  thin- 
lipped,  elongated,  hard-eyed  visage,  and  that  pain- 
fully precise  hair,  which  are  always  associated  with 
widowhood  in  low  life.  It  is  only  in  higher  circles 
that  women  can  lose  their  husbands  and  yet  remain 
bewitching.  The  late  Mr.  Drabdump  had  scratched 
the  base  of  his  thumb  with  a  rusty  nail,  and  Mrs. 


138  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

Drabdump's  foreboding,  that  he  would  die  of  lock- 
jaw had  not  prevented  her  wrestling  day  and  night 
with  the  shadow  of  Death,  as  she  had  wrestled  with 
it  vainly  twice  before,  when  Katie  died  of  diphtheria 
and  little  Johnny  of  scarlet  fever.  Perhaps  it  is  from 
overwork  among  the  poor  that  Death  has  been  re- 
duced to  a  shadow. 

Mrs.  Drabdump  was  lighting  the  kitchen  fire.  She 
did  it  very  scientifically,  as  knowing  the  contrariety 
of  coal  and  the  anxiety  of  flaming  sticks  to  end  in 
smoke  unless  rigidly  kept  up  to  the  mark.  Science 
was  a  success  as  usual ;  and  Mrs.  Drabdump  rose 
from  her  knees  content,  like  a  Parsee  priestess  who 
had  duly  paid  her  morning  devotions  to  her  deity. 
Then  she  started  violently,  and  nearly  lost  her  bal- 
ance. Her  eye  had  caught  the  hands  of  the  clock 
on  the  mantel.  They  pointed  to  fifteen  minutes  to 
seven.  Mrs.  Drabdump's  devotion  to  the  kitchen 
fire  invariably  terminated  at  fifteen  minutes  past  six. 
What  was  the  matter  with  the  clock  ? 

Mrs.  Drabdump  had  an  immediate  vision  of  Snop- 
pet,  the  neighbouring  horologist,  keeping  the  clock 
in  hand  for  weeks  and  then  returning  it  only  super- 
ficially repaired  and  secretly  injured  more  vitally  "  for 
the  good  of  the  trade."  The  evil  vision  vanished 
as  quickly  as  it  came,  exorcised  by  the  deep  boom 
of  St.  Dunstan's  bells  chiming  the  three-quarters. 
In  its  place  a  great  horror  surged.  Instinct  had 
failed ;    Mrs.    Drabdump   had  risen  at   half-past  six 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  139 

instead  of  six.  Now  she  understood  why  she  had 
been  feeling  so  dazed  and  strange  and  sleepy.  She 
had  overslept  herself. 

Chagrined  and  puzzled,  she  hastily  set  the  kettle 
over  the  crackling  coal,  discovering  a  second  later 
that  she  had  overslept  herself  because  Mr.  Constant 
wished  to  be  woke  three-quarters  of  an  hour  earlier 
than  usual,  and  to  have  his  breakfast  at  seven,  having 
to  speak  at  an  early  meeting  of  discontented  tram- 
men.  She  ran  at  once,  candle  in  hand,  to  his  bed- 
room. It  was  upstairs.  All  "upstairs"  was  Arthur 
Constant's  domain,  for  it  consisted  of  but  two  mutu- 
ally independent  rooms.  Mrs.  Drabdump  knocked 
viciously  at  the  door  of  the  one  he  used  for  a  bed- 
room, crying,  "  Seven  o'clock,  sir.  You'll  be  late, 
sir.  You  must  get  up  at  once."  The  usual  slum- 
brous "All  right"  was  not  forthcoming;  but,  as  she 
herself  had  varied  her  morning  salute,  her  ear  was 
less  expectant  of  the  echo.  She  went  downstairs, 
with  no  foreboding  save  that  the  kettle  would  come 
off  second  best  in  the  race  between  its  boiling  and 
her  lodger's  dressing. 

For  she  knew  there  was  no  fear  of  Arthur  Con- 
stant's lying  deaf  to  the  call  of  Duty — temporarily 
represented  by  Mrs.  Drabdump.  He  was  a  light 
sleeper,  and  the  tram-conductors'  bells  were  probably 
ringing  in  his  ears,  summoning  him  to  the  meeting. 
Why  Arthur  Constant,  B.A. — white-handed  and 
white-shirted,  and  gentleman  to  the  very  purse  of 


140  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

him —  should  concern  himself  with  tram-men,  when 
fortune  had  confined  his  necessary  relations  with 
drivers  to  cabmen  at  the  least,  Mrs.  Drabdump  could 
not  quite  make  out.  He  probably  aspired  to  repre- 
sent Bow  in  Parliament ;  but  then  it  would  surely 
have  been  wiser  to  lodge  with  a  landlady  who  pos- 
sessed a  vote  by  having  a  husband  alive.  Nor  was 
there  much  practical  wisdom  in  his  wish^  to  black 
his  own  boots  (an  occupation  in  which  he  shone  but 
little),  and  to  live  in  every  way  like  a  Bow  working 
man.  Bow  working  men  were  not  so  lavish  in  their 
patronage  of  water,  whether  existing  in  drinking- 
glasses,  morning  tubs,  or  laundress's  establishments. 
Nor  did  they  eat  the  delicacies  with  which  Mrs. 
Drabdump  supplied  him,  with  the  assurance  that 
they  were  the  artisan's  appanage.  She  could  not 
bear  to  see  him  eat  things  unbefitting  his  station. 
Arthur  Constant  opened  his  mouth  and  ate  what 
his  landlady  gave  him,  not  first  deliberately  shutting 
his  eyes  according  to  the  formula,  the  rather  pluming 
himself  on  keeping  them  very  wide  open.  But  it 
is  difficult  for  saints  to  see  through  their  own  halos ; 
and  in  practice  an  aureola  about  the  head  is  often 
indistinguishable  from  a  mist. 

The  tea  to  be  scalded  in  Mr.  Constant's  pot,  when 
that  cantankerous  kettle  should  boil,  was  not  the 
coarse  mixture  of  black  and  green  sacred  to  herself 
and  Mr.  Mortlake,  of  whom  the  thoughts  of  break- 
fast now  reminded   her.     Poor  Mr.   Mortlake,   gone 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  141 

off  without  any  to  Devonport,  somewhere  about  four 
in  the  fog-thickened  darkness  of  a  winter  night ! 
Well,  she  hoped  his  journey  would  be  duly  rewarded, 
that  his  perks  would  be  heavy,  and  that  he  would 
make  as  good  a  thing  out  of  the  "  travelling  ex- 
penses "  as  rival  labour  leaders  roundly  accused  him 
of  to  other  people's  faces.  She  did  not  grudge  him 
his  gains,  nor  was  it  her  business  if,  as  they  alleged, 
in  introducing  Mr.  Constant  to  her  vacant  rooms,  his 
idea  was  not  merely  to  benefit  his  landlady.  He 
had  done  her  an  uncommon  good  turn,  queer  as 
was  the  lodger  thus  introduced.  His  own  apostle- 
ship  to  the  sons  of  toil  gave  Mrs.  Drabdump  no 
twinges  of  perplexity.  Tom  Mortlake  had  been  a 
compositor ;  and  apostleship  was  obviously  a  pro- 
fession better  paid  and  of  a  higher  social  status. 
Tom  Mortlake  —  the  hero  of  a  hundred  strikes  — 
set  up  in  print  on  a  poster,  was  unmistakably  supe- 
rior to  Tom  Mortlake  setting  up  other  men's  names 
at  a  case.  Still,  the  work  was  not  all  beer  and 
skittles,  and  Mrs.  Drabdump  felt  that  Tom's  latest 
job  was  not  enviable. 

She  shook  his  door  as  she  passed  it  on  her  way 
back  to  the  kitchen,  but  there  was  no  response. 
The  street  door  was  only  a  few  feet  off  down  the 
passage,  and  a  glance  at  it  dispelled  the  last  hope 
that  Tom  had  abandoned  the  journey.  The  door 
was  unbolted  and  unchained,  and  the  only  security 
was  the  latch-key  lock.     Mrs.  Drabdump  felt  a  whit 


142  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

uneasy,  though,  to  give  her  her  due,  she  never  suf- 
fered as  much  as  most  good  housewives  do  from 
criminals  who  never  come.  Not  quite  opposite,  but 
still  only  a  few  doors  off,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  lived  the  celebrated  ex-detective  Grodman, 
and,  illogically  enough,  his  presence  in  the  street 
gave  Mrs.  Drabdump  a  curious  sense  of  security, 
as  of  a  believer  living  under  the  shadow  of  the  fane. 
That  any  human  being  of  ill  odour  should  consciously 
come  within  a  mile  of  the  scent  of  so  famous  a  sleuth- 
hound  seemed  to  her  highly  improbable.  Grodman 
had  retired  (with  a  competence)  and  was  only  a 
sleeping  dog  now;  still,  even  criminals  would  have 
sense  enough  to  let  him  lie. 

So  Mrs.  Drabdump  did  not  really  feel  that  there 
had  been  any  danger,  especially  as  a  second  glance 
at  the  street  door  showed  that  Mortlake  had  been 
thoughtful  enough  to  slip  the  loop  that  held  back 
the  bolt  of  the  big  lock.  She  allowed  herself  an- 
other throb  of  sympathy  for  the  labour  leader  whirl- 
ing on  his  dreary  way  towards  Devonport  Dockyard. 
Not  that  he  had  told  her  anything  of  his  journey, 
beyond  the  town ;  but  she  knew  Devonport  had  a 
Dockyard  because  Jessie  Dymond  —  Tom's  sweet- 
heart—  once  mentioned  that  her  aunt  lived  near 
there,  and  it  lay  on  the  surface  that  Tom  had  gone 
to  help  the  dockers,  who  were  imitating  their  Lon- 
don brethren.  Mrs.  Drabdump  did  not  need  to  be 
told  things  to  be  aware  of  them.     She  went  back 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  143 

to  prepare  Mr.  Constant's  superfine  tea,  vaguely 
wondering  why  people  were  so  discontented  nowa- 
days. But  when  she  brought  up  the  tea  and  the 
toast  and  the  eggs  to  Mr.  Constant's  sitting-room 
(which  adjoined  his  bedroom,  though  without  com- 
municating with  it),  Mr.  Constant  was  not  sitting  in 
it.  She  lit  the  gas,  and  laid  the  cloth ;  then  she 
returned  to  the  landing  and  beat  at  the  bedroom 
door  with  an  imperative  palm.  Silence  alone  an- 
swered her.  She  called  him  by  name  and  told  him 
the  hour,  but  hers  was  the  only  voice  she  heard,  and 
it  sounded  strangely  to  her  in  the  shadows  of  the 
staircase.  Then,  muttering,  "  Poor  gentleman,  he 
had  the  toothache  last  night ;  and  p'r'aps  he's  only 
just  got  a  wink  o'  sleep.  Pity  to  disturb  him  for 
the  sake  of  them  grizzling  conductors.  I'll  let  him 
sleep  his  usual  time,"  she  bore  the  tea-pot  down- 
stairs with  a  mournful,  almost  poetic,  consciousness 
that  soft-boiled  eggs  (like  love)  must  grow  cold. 

Half-past  seven  came  —  and  she  knocked  again. 
But  Constant  slept  on. 

His  letters,  always  a  strange  assortment,  arrived 
at  eight,  and  a  telegram  came  soon  after.  Mrs. 
Drabdump  rattled  his  door,  shouted,  and  at  last 
put  the  wire  under  it.  Her  heart  was  beating  fast 
enough  now,  though  there  seemed  to  be  a  cold, 
clammy  snake  curling  round  it.  She  went  down- 
stairs again  and  turned  the  handle  of  Mortlake's 
room,    and    went    in    without    knowing    why.     The 


144  THE   BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

coverlet  of  the  bed  showed  that  the  occupant  had 
only  lain  down  in  his  clothes,  as  if  fearing  to  miss 
the  early  train.  She  had  not  for  a  moment  expected 
to  find  him  in  the  room ;  yet  somehow  the  con- 
sciousness that  she  was  alone  in  the  house  with  the 
sleeping  Constant  seemed  to  flash  for  the  first  time 
upon  her,  and  the  clammy  snake  tightened  its  folds 
round  her  heart. 

She  opened  the  street  door,  and  her  eye  wandered 
nervously  up  and  down.  It  was  half-past  eight. 
The  little  street  stretched  cold  and  still  in  the  grey 
mist,  blinking  bleary  eyes  at  either  end,  where  the 
street  lamps  smouldered  on.  No  one  was  visible  for 
the  moment,  though  smoke  was  rising  from  many 
of  the  chimneys  to  greet  its  sister  mist.  At  the 
house  of  the  detective  across  the  way  the  blinds 
were  still  down  and  the  shutters  up.  Yet  the 
familiar,  prosaic  aspect  of  the  street  calmed  her. 
The  bleak  air  set  her  coughing ;  she  slammed  the 
door  to,  and  returned  to  the  kitchen  to  make  fresh 
tea  for  Constant,  who  could  only  be  in  a  deep  sleep. 
But  the  canister  trembled  in  her  grasp.  She  did  not 
know  whether  she  dropped  it  or  threw  it  down,  but 
there  was  nothing  in  the  hand  that  battered  again 
a  moment  later  at  the  bedroom  door.  No  sound 
within  answered  the  clamour  without.  She  rained 
blow  upon  blow  in  a  sort  of  spasm  of  frenzy,  scarce 
remembering  that  her  object  was  merely  to  wake 
her  lodger,  and  almost  staving  in  the  lower  panels 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  145 

with  her  kicks.  Then  she  turned  the  handle  and 
tried  to  open  the  door,  but  it  was  locked.  The 
resistance  recalled  her  to  herself  —  she  had  a 
moment  of  shocked  decency  at  the  thought  that 
she  had  been  about  to  enter  Constant's  bedroom. 
Then  the  terror  came  over  her  afresh.  She  felt 
that  she  was  alone  in  the  house  with  a  corpse. 
She  sank  to  the  floor,  cowering ;  with  difficulty 
stifling  a  desire  to  scream.  Then  she  rose  with  a 
jerk  and  raced  down  the  stairs  without  looking 
behind  her,  and  threw  open  the  door  and  ran  out 
into  the  street,  only  pulling  up  with  her  hand 
violently  agitating  Grodman's  door-knocker.  In  a 
moment  the  first-floor  window  was  raised — the  little 
house  was  of  the  same  pattern  as  her  own  —  and 
Grodman's  full  fleshy  face  loomed  through  the  fog 
in  sleepy  irritation  from  under  a  nightcap.  Despite 
its  scowl  the  ex-detective's  face  dawned  upon  her 
like  the  sun  upon  an  occupant  of  the  haunted 
chamber. 

"  What  in  the  devil's  the  matter  ? "  he  growled. 
Grodman  was  not  an  early  bird,  now  that  he  had 
no  worms  to  catch.  He  could  afford  to  despise 
proverbs  now,  for  the  house  in  which  he  lived  was 
his,  and  he  lived  in  it  because  several  other  houses 
in  the  street  were  also  his,  and  it  is  well  for  the 
landlord  to  be  about  his  own  estate  in  Bow,  where 
poachers  often  shoot  the  moon.  Perhaps  the  de- 
sire to  enjoy  his  greatness  among  his  early  cronies 


146  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

counted  for  something,  too,  for  he  had  been  born 
and  bred  at  Bow,  receiving  when  a  youth  his  first 
engagement  from  the  local  police  quarters,  whence 
he  had  drawn  a  few  shillings  a  week  as  an  amateur 
detective  in  his  leisure  hours. 

Grodman  was  still  a  bachelor.  In  the  celestial 
matrimonial  bureau  a  partner  might  have  been 
selected  for  him,  but  he  had  never  been  able  to 
discover  her.  It  was  his  one  failure  as  a  detective. 
He  was  a  self-sufficing  person,  who  preferred  a  gas 
stove  to  a  domestic ;  but  in  deference  to  Glover 
Street  opinion  he  admitted  a  female  factotum  be- 
tween ten  a.  m.  and  ten  p.  m.,  and,  equally  in  defer- 
ence to  Glover  Street  opinion,  excluded  her  between 
ten  p.  m.  and  ten  a.  m. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  across  at  once,"  Mrs.  Drab- 
dump  gasped.  "  Something  has  happened  to  Mr. 
Constant." 

"  What !  Not  bludgeoned  by  the  police  at  the 
meeting  this  morning,  I  hope  ? " 

"No,  no  !     He  didn't  go.     He  is  dead." 

"  Dead  ? "  Grodman's  face  grew  very  serious 
now. 

"  Yes.     Murdered  !  " 

"  What  ?  "  almost  shouted  the  ex-detective.  "  How? 
When  ?     Where  ?     Who  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  can't  get  to  him.  I  have  beaten 
at  his  door.     He  does  not  answer." 

Grodman's  face  lit  up  with  relief. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  147 

"You  silly  woman!  Is  that  all?  I  shall  have  a 
cold  in  my  head.  Bitter  weather.  He's  dog-tired 
after  yesterday  —  processions,  three  speeches,  kinder- 
garten, lecture  on  '  the  moon,'  article  on  coopera- 
tion. That's  his  style."  It  was  also  Grodman's  style. 
He  never  wasted  words. 

"  No,"  Mrs.  Drabdump  breathed  up  at  him  sol- 
emnly, "  he's  dead." 

"All  right;  go  back.  Don't  alarm  the  neighbour- 
hood unnecessarily.  Wait  for  me.  Down  in  five 
minutes."  Grodman  did  not  take  this  Cassandra 
of  the  kitchen  too  seriously.  Probably  he  knew  his 
woman.  His  small,  bead-like  eyes  glittered  with  an 
almost  amused  smile  as  he  withdrew  them  from  Mrs. 
Drabdump's  ken,  and  shut  clown  the  sash  with  a 
bang.  The  poor  woman  ran  back  across  the  road 
and  through  her  door,  which  she  would  not  close 
behind  her.  It  seemed  to  shut  her  in  with  the  dead. 
She  waited  in  the  passage.  After  an  age  —  seven 
minutes  by  any  honest  clock  —  Grodman  made  his 
appearance,  looking  as  dressed  as  usual,  but  with 
unkempt  hair  and  with  disconsolate  side-whisker. 
He  was  not  quite  used  to  that  side-whisker  yet,  for 
it  had  only  recently  come  within  the  margin  of 
cultivation.  In  active  service  Grodman  had  been 
clean-shaven,  like  all  members  of  the  profession  — 
for  surely  your  detective  is  the  most  versatile 
of  actors.  Mrs.  Drabdump  closed  the  street  door 
quietly,  and    pointed   to   the   stairs,    fear    operating 


148  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

like  a  polite  desire  to  give  him  precedence.  Grod- 
man  ascended,  amusement  still  glimmering  in  his 
eyes.  Arrived  on  the  landing  he  knocked  peremp- 
torily at  the  door,  crying,  "  Nine  o'clock,  Mr. 
Constant ;  nine  o'clock ! "  When  he  ceased  there 
was  no  other  sound  or  movement.  His  face  grew 
more  serious.  He  waited,  then  knocked,  and  cried 
louder.  He  turned  the  handle  but  the  door  was 
fast.  He  tried  to  peer  through  the  keyhole,  but  it 
was  blocked.  He  shook  the  upper  panels,  but  the 
door  seemed  bolted  as  well  as  locked.  He  stood 
still,  his  face  set  and  rigid,  for  he  liked  and  es- 
teemed the  man. 

"Ay,  knock  your  loudest,"  whispered  the  pale- 
faced  woman.     "You'll  not  wake  him  now." 

The  grey  mist  had  followed  them  through  the 
street  door,  and  hovered  about  the  staircase,  charg- 
ing the  air  with  a  moist  sepulchral  odour. 

"  Locked  and  bolted,"  muttered  Grodman,  shaking 
the  door  afresh. 

"Burst  it  open,"  breathed  the  woman,  trembling 
violently  all  over,  and  holding  her  hands  before 
her  as  if  to  ward  off  the  dreadful  vision.  Without 
another  word,  Grodman  applied  his  shoulder  to  the 
door,  and  made  a  violent  muscular  effort.  He  had 
been  an  athlete  in  his  time,  and  the  sap  was  yet  in 
him.  The  door  creaked,  little  by  little  it  began  to 
give,  the  woodwork  enclosing  the  bolt  of  the  lock 
splintered,  the  panels  bent  inwards,  the  large  upper 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  149 

bolt  tore  off  its  iron  staple ;  the  door  flew  back  with 
a  crash.     Grodman  rushed  in. 

"  My  God ! "  he  cried.  The  woman  shrieked. 
The  sight  was  too  terrible. 

****** 

Within  a  few  hours  the  jubilant  newsboys  were 
shrieking  "Horrible  Suicide  in  Bow,"  and  The  Moon 
poster  added,  for  the  satisfaction  of  those  too  poor 
to  purchase,    "A   Philanthropist  Cuts  His  Throat." 

II 

But  the  newspapers  were  premature.  Scotland 
Yard  refused  to  prejudice  the  case  despite  the 
penny-a-liners.  Several  arrests  were  made,  so  that 
the  later  editions  were  compelled  to  soften  "  Suicide" 
into  "  Mystery."  The  people  arrested  were  a  non- 
descript collection  of  tramps.  Most  of  them  had 
committed  other  offences  for  which  the  police  had 
not  arrested  them.  One  bewildered-looking  gentle- 
man gave  himself  up  (as  if  he  were  a  riddle),  but 
the  police  would  have  none  of  him,  and  restored  him 
forthwith  to  his  friends  and  keepers.  The  number 
of  candidates  for  each  new  opening  in  Newgate  is 
astonishing. 

The  full  significance  of  this  tragedy  of  a  noble 
young  life  cut  short  had  hardly  time  to  filter  into 
the  public  mind,  when  a  fresh  sensation  absorbed 
it.  Tom  Mortlake  had  been  arrested  the  same  day 
at  Liverpool  on  suspicion  of  being  concerned  in  the 


150  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

death  of  his  fellow-lodger.  The  news  fell  like  a 
bombshell  upon  a  land  in  which  Tom  Mortlake's 
name  was  a  household  word.  That  the  gifted 
artisan  orator,  who  had  never  shrunk  upon  occa- 
sion from  launching  red  rhetoric  at  society,  should 
actually  have  shed  blood  seemed  too  startling,  espe- 
cially as  the  blood  shed  was  not  blue,  but  the 
property  of  a  lovable  young  middle-class  idealist, 
who  had  now  literally  given  his  life  to  the  Cause. 
But  this  supplementary  sensation  did  not  grow  to 
a  head,  and  everybody  (save  a  few  labour  leaders) 
was  relieved  to  hear  that  Tom  had  been  released 
almost  immediately,  being  merely  subpoenaed  to 
appear  at  the  inquest.  In  an  interview  which  he 
accorded  to  the  representative  of  a  Liverpool  paper 
the  same  afternoon,  he  stated  that  he  put  his  arrest 
down  entirely  to  the  enmity  and  rancour  entertained 
towards  him  by  the  police  throughout  the  country. 
He  had  come  to  Liverpool  to  trace  the  movements 
of  a  friend  about  whom  he  was  very  uneasy,  and 
he  was  making  anxious  inquiries  at  the  docks  to 
discover  at  what  times  steamers  left  for  America, 
when  the  detectives  stationed  there  had,  in  accord- 
ance with  instructions  from  headquarters,  arrested 
him  as  a  suspicious-looking  character.  "Though," 
said  Tom,  "  they  must  very  well  have  known  my 
phiz,  as  I  have  been  sketched  and  caricatured  all 
over  the  shop.  When  I  told  them  who  I  was  they 
had  the  decency  to  let  me  go.     They  thought  they'd 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  151 

scored  off  me  enough,  I  reckon.  Yes,  it  certainly 
is  a  strange  coincidence  that  I  might  actually  have 
had  something  to  do  with  the  poor  fellow's  death, 
which  has  cut  me  up  as  much  as  anybody ;  though 
if  they  had  known  I  had  just  come  from  the 
'  scene  of  the  crime,'  and  actually  lived  in  the  house, 
they  would  probably  have  —  let  me  alone."  He 
laughed  sarcastically.  "  They  are  a  queer  lot  of 
muddle-heads,  are  the  police.  Their  motto  is,  '  First 
catch  your  man,  then  cook  the  evidence.'  If  you're 
on  the  spot  you're  guilty  because  you're  there,  and 
if  you're  elsewhere  you're  guilty  because  you  have 
gone  away.  Oh,  I  know  them !  If  they  could  have 
seen  their  way  to  clap  me  in  quod,  they'd  ha'  done 
it.  Luckily  I  know  the  number  of  the  cabman  who 
took  me  to  Euston  before  five  this  morning." 

"  If  they  clapped  you  in  quod,"  the  interviewer 
reported  himself  as  facetiously  observing,  "  the 
prisoners  would  be  on  strike  in  a  week." 

"  Yes,  but  there  would  be  so  many  blacklegs  ready 
to  take  their  places,"  Mortlake  flashed  back,  "  that 
I'm  afraid  it  'ould  be  no  go.  But  do  excuse  me.  I 
am  so  upset  about  my  friend.  I'm  afraid  he  has 
left  England,  and  I  have  to  make  inquiries ;  and 
now  there's  poor  Constant  gone  —  horrible!  horri- 
ble \  and  I'm  due  in  London  at  the  inquest.  I  must 
really  run  away.  Good-by.  Tell  your  readers  it's 
all  a  police  grudge." 

"  One  last  word,  Mr.  Mortlake,  if  you  please.     Is 


152  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

it  true  that  you  were  billed  to  preside  at  a  great 
meeting  of  clerks  at  St.  James's  Hall  between  one 
and  two  to-day  to  protest  against  the  German  in- 
vasion ?  " 

"  Whew  !  so  I  was.  But  the  beggars  arrested 
me  just  before  one,  when  I  was  going  to  wire,  and 
then  the  news  of  poor  Constant's  end  drove  it  out 
of  my  head.  What  a  nuisance  !  Lord,  how  troubles 
do  come  together !  Well,  good-by,  send  me  a  copy 
of  the  paper." 

Tom  Mortlake's  evidence  at  the  inquest  added 
little  beyond  this  to  the  public  knowledge  of  his 
movements  on  the  morning  of  the  Mystery.  The 
cabman  who  drove  him  to  Euston  had  written  in- 
dignantly to  the  papers  to  say  that  he  picked  up 
his  celebrated  fare  at  Bow  Railway  Station  at  about 
half-past  four  a.m.,  and  the  arrest  was  a  deliberate 
insult  to  democracy,  and  he  offered  to  make  an 
affidavit  to  that  effect,  leaving  it  dubious  to  which 
effect.  But  Scotland  Yard  betrayed  no  itch  for  the 
affidavit  in  question,  and  No.  2138  subsided  again 
into  the  obscurity  of  his  rank.  Mortlake  —  whose 
face  was  very  pale  below  the  black  mane  brushed 
back  from  his  fine  forehead  —  gave  his  evidence 
in  low,  sympathetic  tones.  He  had  known  the 
deceased  for  over  a  year,  coming  constantly  across 
him  in  their  common  political  and  social  work,  and 
had  found  the  furnished  rooms  for  him  in  Glover 
Street   at   his   own   request,  they  just   being   to    let 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  153 

when  Constant  resolved  to  leave  his  rooms  at  Oxford 
House  in  Bethnal  Green,  and  to  share  the  actual  life 
of  the  people.  The  locality  suited  the  deceased, 
as  being  near  the  People's  Palace.  He  respected 
and  admired  the  deceased,  whose  genuine  good- 
ness had  won  all  hearts.  The  deceased  was  an 
untiring  worker ;  never  grumbled,  was  always  in 
fair  spirits,  regarded  his  life  and  wealth  as  a  sacred 
trust  to  be  used  for  the  benefit  of  humanity.  He 
had  last  seen  him  at  a  quarter  past  nine  p.m.  on  the 
day  preceding  his  death.  He  (witness)  had  received 
a  letter  by  the  last  post  which  made  him  uneasy 
about  a  friend.  He  went  up  to  consult  deceased 
about  it.  Deceased  was  evidently  suffering  from 
toothache,  and  was  fixing  a  piece  of  cotton-wool  in 
a  hollow  tooth,  but  he  did  not  complain.  Deceased 
seemed  rather  upset  by  the  news  he  brought,  and 
they  both  discussed  it  rather  excitedly. 

By  a  Juryman  :    Did  the  news  concern  him  ? 

Mortlake  :  Only  impersonally.  He  knew  my 
friend,  and  was  keenly  sympathetic  when  one  was 
in  trouble. 

Coroner  :  Could  you  show  the  jury  the  letter 
you  received  ? 

Mortlake  :  I  have  mislaid  it,  and  cannot  make 
out  where  it  has  got  to.  If  you,  sir,  think  it 
relevant  or  essential,  I  will  state  what  the  trouble 
was. 

Coroner  :    Was  the  toothache  very  violent  ? 


164  THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

Mortlake  :  I  cannot  tell.  I  think  not,  though 
he  told  me  it  had  disturbed  his  rest  the  night 
before. 

Coroner:   What  time  did  you  leave  him? 

Mortlake  :    About  twenty  to  ten. 

Coroner  :    And  what  did  you  do  then  ? 

Mortlake  :  I  went  out  for  an  hour  or  so  to 
make  some  inquiries.  Then  I  returned,  and  told 
my  landlady  I  should  be  leaving  by  an  early  train 
for  —  for  the  country. 

Coroner  :  And  that  was  the  last  you  saw  of  the 
deceased  ? 

Mortlake  (with  emotion) :    The  last. 

Coroner:    How  was  he  when  you  left  him  ? 

Mortlake  :    Mainly  concerned  about  my  trouble. 

Coroner  :  Otherwise  you  saw  nothing  unusual 
about  him  ? 

Mortlake  :    Nothing. 

Coroner:  What  time  did  you  leave  the  house 
on  Tuesday  morning  ? 

Mortlake  :  At  about  five-and-twenty  minutes 
past  four. 

Coroner  :  Are  you  sure  that  you  shut  the  street 
door  ? 

Mortlake  :  Quite  sure.  Knowing  my  landlady 
was  rather  a  timid  person,  I  even  slipped  the  bolt 
of  the  big  lock,  which  was  usually  tied  back.  It 
was  impossible  for  any  one  to  get  in,  even  with 
a  latch-key. 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  155 

Mrs.  Drabdump's  evidence  (which,  of  course,  pre- 
ceded his)  was  more  important,  and  occupied  a  con- 
siderable time,  unduly  eked  out  by  Drabdumpian 
padding.  Thus  she  not  only  deposed  that  Mr.  Con- 
stant had  the  toothache,  but  that  it  was  going  to 
last  about  a  week ;  in  tragi-comic  indifference 
to  the  radical  cure  that  had  been  effected.  Her 
account  of  the  last  hours  of  the  deceased  tallied 
with  Mortlake's,  only  that  she  feared  Mortlake  was 
quarrelling  with  him  over  something  in  the  letter 
that  came  by  the  nine  o'clock  post.  Deceased  had  left 
the  house  a  little  after  Mortlake,  but  had  returned 
before  him,  and  had  gone  straight  to  his  bedroom. 
She  had  not  actually  seen  him  come  in,  having  been 
in  the  kitchen,  but  she  heard  his  latch-key,  followed 
by  his  light  step  up  the  stairs. 

A  Juryman  :  How  do  you  know  it  was  not  some- 
body else?  (Sensation,  of  ivliich  the  juryman  tries 
to  look  unconscious.) 

Witness:   He  called  down  to  me  over  the  banis- 
ters,   and    says   in    his    sweetish   voice,    "  Be    hextra 
sure  to  wake  me  at  a  quarter  to  seven,  Mrs.  Drab- 
dump,  or  else  I  shan't  get  to  my  tram  meeting." 
(Juryman  collapses.) 

Coroner  :    And  did  you  wake  him  ? 

Mrs.  Drabdump  (breaking  down) :  Oh,  my  hid, 
how  can  you  ask  ? 

Coroner  :  There,  there,  compose  yourself.  I 
mean  did  you  try  to  wake  him  ? 


156  THE   BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

Mrs.  Drabdump  :  I  have  taken  in  and  done  for 
lodgers  this  seventeen  years,  my  lud,  and  have 
always  gave  satisfaction ;  and  Mr.  Mortlake,  he 
wouldn't  ha'  recommended  me  otherwise,  though 
I  wish  to  Heaven  the  poor  gentleman  had  never  — 

Coroner  :  Yes,  yes,  of  course.  You  tried  to 
rouse  him  ? 

But  it  was  some  time  before  Mrs.  Drabdump 
was  sufficiently  calm  to  explain  that,  though  she 
had  overslept  herself,  and  though  it  would  have 
been  all  the  same  anyhow,  she  had  come  up  to 
time.  Bit  by  bit  the  tragic  story  was  forced  from 
her  lips  —  a  tragedy  that  even  her  telling  could 
not  make  tawdry.  She  told  with  superfluous  detail 
how  —  when  Mr.  Grodman  broke  in  the  door  — 
she  saw  her  unhappy  gentleman-lodger  lying  on 
his  back  in  bed,  stone  dead,  with  a  gaping  red 
wound  in  his  throat ;  how  her  stronger-minded  com- 
panion calmed  her  a  little  by  spreading  a  handker- 
chief over  the  distorted  face ;  how  they  then  looked 
vainly  about  and  under  the  bed  for  any  instrument 
by  which  the  deed  could  have  been  done,  the  veteran 
detective  carefully  making  a  rapid  inventory  of  the 
contents  of  the  room,  and  taking  notes  of  the  pre- 
cise position  and  condition  of  the  body  before  any- 
thing was  disturbed  by  the  arrival  of  gapers  or 
bunglers ;  how  she  had  pointed  out  to  him  that 
both  the  windows  were  firmly  bolted  to  keep  out 
the   cold   night  air ;    how,    having    noted   this    down 


THE  BIG    BOW  MYSTERY  157 

with  a  puzzled,  pitying  shake  of  the  head,  he  had 
opened  the  window  to  summon  the  police,  and 
espied  in  the  fog  one  Denzil  Cantercot,  whom  he 
called,  and  told  to  run  to  the  nearest  police-station 
and  ask  them  to  send  on  an  inspector  and  a  surgeon ; 
how  they  both  remained  in  the  room  till  the  police 
arrived,  Grodman  pondering  deeply  the  while  and 
making  notes  every  now  and  again,  as  fresh  points 
occurred  to  him,  and  asking  her  questions  about 
the  poor,  weak-headed  young  man.  Pressed  as  to 
what  she  meant  by  calling  the  deceased  "  weak- 
headed,"  she  replied  that  some  of  her  neighbours 
wrote  him  begging  letters,  though,  Heaven  knew, 
they  were  better  off  than  herself,  who  had  to  scrape 
her  fingers  to  the  bone  for  every  penny  she  earned. 
Under  further  pressure  from  Mr.  Talbot,  who  was 
watching  the  inquiry  on  behalf  of  Arthur  Constant's 
family,  Mrs.  Drabdump  admitted  that  the  deceased 
had  behaved  like  a  human  being,  nor  was  there  any- 
thing externally  eccentric  or  queer  in  his  conduct. 
He  was  always  cheerful  and  pleasant  spoken,  though 
certainly  soft  —  God  rest  his  soul.  No  ;  he  never 
shaved,  but  wore  all  the  hair  that  Heaven  had  given 
him. 

By  a  Juryman  :  She  thought  deceased  was  in 
the  habit  of  locking  his  door  when  he  went  to  bed. 
Of  course,  she  couldn't  say  for  certain.  (Laughter.) 
There  was  no  need  to  bolt  the  door  as  well.  The 
bolt  slid  upwards,  and  was  at  the  top  of  the  door. 


158  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

When  she  first  let  lodgings,  her  reasons  for  which 
she  seemed  anxious  to  publish,  there  had  only  been 
a  bolt,  but  a  suspicious  lodger,  she  would  not  call 
him  a  gentleman,  had  complained  that  he  could 
not  fasten  his  door  behind  him,  and  so  she  had 
been  put  to  the  expense  of  having  a  lock  made. 
The  complaining  lodger  went  off  soon  after  with- 
out paying  his  rent.  (Laughter.)  She  had  always 
known  he  would. 

The  Coroner  :  Was  deceased  at  all  nervous  ? 

Witness  :  No,  he  was  a  very  nice  gentleman.  (A 
laugh.) 

Coroner  :  I  mean  did  he  seem  afraid  of  being 
robbed  ? 

Witness  :  No,  he  was  always  goin'  to  demonstra- 
tions. (Laughter.)  I  told  him  to  be  careful.  I  told 
him  I  lost  a  purse  with  3s.  2d.  myself  on  Jubilee 
Day. 

Mrs.  Drabdump  resumed  her  seat,  weeping  vaguely. 

The  Coroner  :  Gentlemen,  we  shall  have  an 
opportunity  of  viewing  the  room  shortly. 

The  story  of  the  discovery  of  the  body  was  retold, 
though  more  scientifically,  by  Mr.  George  Grodman, 
whose  unexpected  resurgence  into  the  realm  of  his 
early  exploits  excited  as  keen  a  curiosity  as  the  re- 
appearance "  for  this  occasion  only  "  of  a  retired  prima 
donna.  His  book,  Ciiminals  I  have  CaugJit,  passed 
from  the  twenty-third  to  the  twenty-fourth  edition 
merely  on  the  strength  of  it.     Mr.  Grodman  stated 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  159 

that  the  body  was  still  warm  when  he  found  it. 
He  thought  that  death  was  quite  recent.  The  door 
he  had  had  to  burst  was  bolted  as  well  as  locked. 
He  confirmed  Mrs.  Drabdump's  statement  about  the 
windows ;  the  chimney  was  very  narrow.  The  cut 
looked  as  if  done  by  a  razor.  There  was  no  instru- 
ment lying  about  the  room.  He  had  known  the 
deceased  about  a  month.  He  seemed  a  very 
earnest,  simple-minded  young  fellow,  who  spoke  a 
great  deal  about  the  brotherhood  of  man.  (The 
hardened  old  man-hunter's  voice  was  not  free  from 
a  tremor  as  he  spoke  jerkily  of  the  dead  man's 
enthusiasms.)  He  should  have  thought  the  deceased 
the  last  man  in  the  world  to  commit  suicide. 

Mr.  Denzil  Cantercot  was  next  called  :  He  was 
a  poet.  (Laughter.)  He  was  on  his  way  to  Mr. 
Grodman's  house  to  tell  him  he  had  been  unable  to 
do  some  writing  for  him  because  he  was  suffering 
from  writer's  cramp,  when  Mr.  Grodman  called  to 
him  from  the  window  of  No.  1 1  and  asked  him  to 
run  for  the  police.  No,  he  did  not  run ;  he  was  a 
philosopher.  (Laughter.)  He  returned  with  them 
to  the  door,  but  did  not  go  up.  He  had  no  stomach 
for  crude  sensations.  (Laughter.)  The  grey  fog 
was  sufficiently  unbeautiful  for  him  for  one  morning. 
(Laughter.) 

Inspector  Howlett  said :  About  9.45  on  the 
morning  of  Tuesday,  4th  December,  from  informa- 
tion   received,   he   went   with    Sergeant  Runnymede 


160  THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

and  Dr.  Robinson  to  1 1  Glover  Street,  Bow,  and 
there  found  the  dead  body  of  a  young  man,  lying  on 
his  back  with  his  throat  cut.  The  door  of  the  room 
had  been  smashed  in,  and  the  lock  and  the  bolt 
evidently  forced.  The  room  was  tidy.  There  were 
no  marks  of  blood  on  the  floor.  A  purse  full  of  gold 
was  on  the  dressing-table  beside  a  big  book.  A  hip- 
bath, with  cold  water,  stood  beside  the  bed,  over 
which  was  a  hanging  bookcase.  There  was  a  large 
wardrobe  against  the  wall  next  to  the  door.  The 
chimney  was  very  narrow.  There  were  two  windows, 
one  bolted.  It  was  about  eighteen  feet  to  the  pave- 
ment There  was  no  way  of  climbing  up.  No  one 
could  possibly  have  got  out  of  the  room,  and  then 
bolted  the  doors  and  windows  behind  him  ;  and  he 
had  searched  all  parts  of  the  room  in  which  any  one 
might  have  been  concealed.  He  had  been  unable  to 
find  any  instrument  in  the  room  in  spite  of  exhaustive 
search,  there  being  not  even  a  penknife  in  the 
pockets  of  the  clothes  of  the  deceased,  which  lay  on 
a  chair.  The  house  and  the  back  yard,  and  the  ad- 
jacent pavement,  had  also  been  fruitlessly  searched. 

Sergeant  Runnymede  made  an  identical  statement, 
saving  only  that  he  had  gone  with  Dr.  Robinson  and 
Inspector  Howlett. 

Dr.  Robinson,  divisional  surgeon,  said :  "  The  de- 
ceased was  lying  on  his  back,  with  his  throat  cut. 
The  body  was  not  yet  cold,  the  abdominal  region 
being    quite  warm.     Rigor  mortis  had  set  in  in  the 


THE   BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  161 

lower  jaw,  neck,  and  upper  extremities.  The  muscles 
contracted  when  beaten.  I  inferred  that  life  had 
been  extinct  some  two  or  three  hours,  probably  not 
longer,  it  might  have  been  less.  The  bed-clothes 
would  keep  the  lower  part  warm  for  some  time.  The 
wound,  which  was  a  deep  one,  was  five  and  a  half 
inches  from  right  to  left  across  the  throat  to  a  point 
under  the  left  ear.  The  upper  portion  of  the  wind- 
pipe was  severed,  and  likewise  the  jugular  vein.  The 
muscular  coating  of  the  carotid  artery  was  divided. 
There  was  a  slight  cut,  as  if  in  continuation  of  the 
wound,  on  the  thumb  of  the  left  hand.  The  hands 
were  clasped  underneath  the  head.  There  was  no 
blood  on  the  right  hand.  The  wound  could  not 
have  been  self-inflicted.  A  sharp  instrument  had 
been  used,  such  as  a  razor.  The  cut  might  have 
been  made  by  a  left-handed  person.  No  doubt  death 
was  practically  instantaneous.  I  saw  no  signs  of  a 
struggle  about  the  body  or  the  room.  I  noticed  a 
purse  on  the  dressing-table,  lying  next  to  Madame 
Blavatsky's  big  book  on  Theosophy.  Sergeant  Runny- 
mede  drew  my  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  door  had 
evidently  been  locked  and  bolted  from  within." 

By  a  Juryman  :  I  do  not  say  the  cuts  could  not 
have  been  made  by  a  right-handed  person.  I  can 
offer  no  suggestion  as  to  how  the  inflictor  of  the 
wound  got  in  or  out.  Extremely  improbable  that  the 
cut  was  self-inflicted.  There  was  little  trace  of 
the  outside  fog  in  the  room. 


162  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

Police  constable  Williams  said  he  was  on  duty 
in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  of  the  4th  inst. 
Glover  Street  lay  within  his  beat.  He  saw  or  heard 
nothing  suspicious.  The  fog  was  never  very  dense, 
though  nasty  to  the  throat.  He  had  passed  through 
Glover  Street  about  half-past  four.  He  had  not  seen 
Mr.  Mortlake  or  anybody  else  leave  the  house. 

The  Court  here  adjourned,  the  coroner  and  the 
jury  repairing  in  a  body  to  1 1  Glover  Street,  to  view 
the  house  and  the  bedroom  of  the  deceased.  And 
the  evening  posters  announced  "  The  Bow  Mystery 
Thickens." 

Ill 

Before  the  inquiry  was  resumed,  all  the  poor 
wretches  in  custody  had  been  released  on  suspicion 
that  they  were  innocent ;  there  was  not  a  single  case 
even  for  a  magistrate.  Clues,  which  at  such  seasons 
are  gathered  by  the  police  like  blackberries  off  the 
hedges,  were  scanty  and  unripe.  Inferior  specimens 
were  offered  them  by  bushels,  but  there  was  not  a 
good  one  among  the  lot.  The  police  could  not  even 
manufacture  a  clue. 

Arthur  Constant's  death  was  already  the  theme  of 
every  hearth,  railway-carriage,  and  public-house.  The 
dead  idealist  had  points  of  contact  with  so  many 
spheres.  The  East-end  and  the  West-end  alike  were 
moved  and  excited,  the  Democratic  Leagues  and  the 
Churches,    the    Doss-houses    and    the    Universities. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  163 

The  pity  of  it !     And  then  the  impenetrable  mystery 
of  it ! 

The  evidence  given  in  the  concluding  portion  of 
the  investigation  was  necessarily  less  sensational. 
There  were  no  more  witnesses  to  bring  the  scent  of 
blood  over  the  coroner's  table ;  those  who  had  yet  to 
be  heard  were  merely  relatives  and  friends  of  the 
deceased,  who  spoke  of  him  as  he  had  been  in  life. 
His  parents  were  dead,  perhaps  happily  for  them ; 
his  relatives  had  seen  little  of  him,  and  had  scarce 
heard  as  much  about  him  as  the  outside  world.  No 
man  is  a  prophet  in  his  own  country,  and,  even  if 
he  migrates,  it  is  advisable  for  him  to  leave  his  family 
at  home.  His  friends  were  a  motley  crew  ;  friends 
of  the  same  friend  are  not  necessarily  friends  of  one 
another.  But  their  diversity  only  made  the  congruity 
of  the  tale  they  had  to  tell  more  striking.  It  was  the 
tale  of  a  man  who  had  never  made  an  enemy  even  by 
benefiting  him,  nor  lost  a  friend  even  by  refusing  his 
favours ;  the  tale  of  a  man  whose  heart  overflowed 
with  peace  and  goodwill  to  all  men  all  the  year 
round;  of  a  man  to  whom  Christmas  came  not  once, 
but  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  times  a  year  ;  it  was 
the  tale  of  a  brilliant  intellect,  who  gave  up  to  man- 
kind what  was  meant  for  himself,  and  worked  as  a 
labourer  in  the  vineyard  of  humanity,  never  crying 
that  the  grapes  were  sour ;  of  a  man  uniformly 
cheerful  and  of  good  courage,  living  in  that  forget- 
fulness  of  self  which  is  the  truest  antidote  to  despair. 


164  THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

And  yet  there  was  not  quite  wanting  the  note  of  pain 
to  jar  the  harmony  and  make  it  human.  Richard 
Elton,  his  chum  from  boyhood,  and  vicar  of  Somer- 
ton,  in  Midlandshire,  handed  to  the  coroner  a  letter 
received  from  the  deceased  about  ten  days  before  his 
death,  containing  some  passages  which  the  coroner 
read  aloud  :  —  "  Do  you  know  anything  of  Schopen- 
hauer ?  I  mean  anything  beyond  the  current  mis- 
conceptions ?  I  have  been  making  his  acquaintance 
lately.  He  is  an  agreeable  rattle  of  a  pessimist ;  his 
essay  on  'The  Misery  of  Mankind'  is  quite  lively 
reading.  At  first  his  assimilation  of  Christianity  and 
Pessimism  (it  occurs  in  his  essay  on  'Suicide ')  daz- 
zled me  as  an  audacious  paradox.  But  there  is  truth 
in  it.  Verily  the  whole  creation  groaneth  and  trav- 
aileth,  and  man  is  a  degraded  monster,  and  sin  is 
over  all.  Ah,  my  friend,  I  have  shed  many  of  my 
illusions  since  I  came  to  this  seething  hive  of  misery 
and  wrongdoing.  What  shall  one  man's  life  —  a 
million  men's  lives  —  avail  against  the  corruption,  the 
vulgarity,  and  the  squalor  of  civilisation  ?  Some- 
times I  feel  like  a  farthing  rushlight  in  the  Hall  of 
Eblis.  Selfishness  is  so  long  and  life  so  short.  And 
the  worst  of  it  is  that  everybody  is  so  beastly  con- 
tented. The  poor  no  more  desire  comfort  than  the 
rich  culture.  The  woman,  to  whom  a  penny  school 
fee  for  her  child  represents  an  appreciable  slice  of 
her  income,  is  satisfied  that  the  rich  we  shall  always 
have  with  us. 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  165 

"  The  real  old  Tories  are  the  paupers  in  the  Work- 
house. The  radical  working  men  are  jealous  of  their 
own  leaders,  and  the  leaders  are  jealous  of  one 
another.  Schopenhauer  must  have  organised  a 
Labour  Party  in  his  salad  days.  And  yet  one  can't 
help  feeling  that  he  committed  suicide  as  a  philoso- 
pher by  not  committing  it  as  a  man.  He  claims  kin- 
ship with  Buddha,  too ;  though  Esoteric  Buddhism  at 
least  seems  spheres  removed  from  the  philosophy  of 
'  the  Will  and  the  Idea.'  What  a  wonderful  woman 
Madame  Blavatsky  must  be!  I  can't  say  I  follow 
her,  for  she  is  up  in  the  clouds  nearly  all  the  time, 
and  I  haven't  as  yet  developed  an  astral  body.  Shall 
I  send  you  on  her  book  ?  It  is  fascinating.  ...  I 
am  becoming  quite  a  fluent  orator.  One  soon  gets 
into  the  way  of  it.  The  horrible  thing  is  that  you 
catch  yourself  saying  things  to  lead  up  to  '  Cheers  ' 
instead  of  sticking  to  the  plain  realities  of  the  busi- 
ness. Lucy  is  still  doing  the  galleries  in  Italy.  It 
used  to  pain  me  sometimes  to  think  of  my  darling's 
happiness  when  I  came  across  a  flat-chested  factory- 
girl.  Now  I  feel  her  happiness  is  as  important  as  a 
factory-girl's." 

Lucy,  the  witness  explained,  was  Lucy  Brent,  the 
betrothed  of  the  deceased.  The  poor  girl  had  been 
telegraphed  for,  and  had  started  for  England.  The 
witness  stated  that  the  outburst  of  despondency  in 
this  letter  was  almost  a  solitary  one,  most  of  the 
letters    in  his  possession  being  bright,  buoyant,  and 


166  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

hopeful.  Even  this  letter  ended  with  a  humorous 
statement  of  the  writer's  manifold  plans  and  projects 
for  the  New  Year.  The  deceased  was  a  good 
Churchman. 

Coroner  :  Was  there  any  private  trouble  in  his 
own  life  to  account  for  the  temporary  despondency  ? 

Witness  :  Not  so  far  as  I  am  aware.  His  finan- 
cial position  was  exceptionally  favourable. 

Coroner  :  There  had  been  no-  quarrel  with  Miss 
Brent  ? 

Witness  :  I  have  the  best  authority  for  saying 
that  no  shadow  of  difference  had  ever  come  between 
them. 

Coroner  :  Was  the  deceased  left-handed  ? 

Witness  :  Certainly  not.  He  was  not  even  ambi- 
dexter. 

A  Juryman  :  Isn't  Shoppinhour  one  of  the  infidel 
writers,  published  by  the  Freethought  Publication 
Society  ? 

Witness  :  I  do  not  know  who  publishes  his  books. 

The  Juryman  (a  small  grocer  and  big  raw-boned 
Scotchman,  rejoicing  in  the  name  of  Sandy  Sanderson 
and  the  dignities  of  deaconry  and  membership  of  the 
committee  of  the  Bow  Conservative  Association): 
No  equeevocation,  sir.  Is  he  not  a  secularist,  who 
has  lectured  at  the  Hall  of  Science  ? 

Witness:  No,  he  is  a  foreign  writer  —  (Mr.  San- 
derson was  heard  to  thank  heaven  for  this  small 
mercy)  —  who  believes  that  life  is  not  worth  living. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  167 

The  Juryman  :  Were  you  not  shocked  to  find  the 
friend  of  a  meenister  reading  such  impure  leeterature  ? 

Witness  :  The  deceased  read  everything.  Scho- 
penhauer is  the  author  of  a  system  of  philosophy, 
and  not  what  you  seem  to  imagine.  Perhaps  you 
would  like  to  inspect  the  book?     (Laughter.) 

The  Juryman  :  I  would  na'  touch  it  with  a  pitch- 
fork. Such  books  should  be  burnt.  And  this 
Madame  Blavatsky's  book  —  what  is  that?  Is  that 
also  pheelosophy  ? 

Witness:  No.     It  is  Theosophy.     (Laughter.) 

Mr.  Allan  Smith,  secretary  of  the  Tram-men's 
Union,  stated  that  he  had  had  an  interview  with  the 
deceased  on  the  day  before  his  death,  when  he  (the  de- 
ceased) spoke  hopefully  of  the  prospects  of  the  move- 
ment, and  wrote  him  out  a  check  for  ten  guineas  for 
his  Union.  Deceased  promised  to  speak  at  a  meeting 
called  for  a  quarter  past  seven  a.m.  the  next  day. 

Mr.  Edward  Wimp,  of  the  Scotland  Yard  Detective 
Department,  said  that  the  letters  and  papers  of  the 
deceased  threw  no  light  upon  the  manner  of  his  death, 
and  they  would  be  handed  back  to  the  family.  His 
Department  had  not  formed  any  theory  on  the  subject. 

The  coroner  proceeded  to  sum  up  the  evidence. 
"We  have  to  deal,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "with  a 
most  incomprehensible  and  mysterious  case,  the 
details  of  which  are  yet  astonishingly  simple.  On 
the  morning  of  Tuesday,  the  4th  inst.,  Mrs.  Drab- 
dump,    a    worthy    hard-working    widow,     who    lets 


168  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

lodgings  at  1 1  Glover  Street,  Bow,  was  unable  to 
arouse  the  deceased,  who  occupied  the  entire  upper 
floor  of  the  house.  Becoming  alarmed,  she  went 
across  to  fetch  Mr.  George  Grodman,  a  gentleman 
known  to  us  all  by  reputation,  and  to  whose  clear  and 
scientific  evidence  we  are  much  indebted,  and  got 
him  to  batter  in  the  door.  They  found  the  deceased 
lying  back  in  bed  with  a  deep  wound  in  his  throat. 
Life  had  only  recently  become  extinct.  There  was 
no  trace  of  any  instrument  by  which  the  cut  could 
have  been  effected :  there  was  no  trace  of  any  per- 
son who  could  have  effected  the  cut.  No  person 
could  apparently  have  got  in  or  out.  The  medical 
evidence  goes  to  show  that  the  deceased  could  not 
have  inflicted  the  wound  himself.  And  yet,  gentle- 
men, there  are,  in  the  nature  of  things,  two — and 
only  two  —  alternative  explanations  of  his  death. 
Either  the  wound  was  inflicted  by  his  own  hand, 
or  it  was  inflicted  by  another's.  I  shall  take  each  of 
these  possibilities  separately.  First,  did  the  deceased 
commit  suicide  ?  The  medical  evidence  says  de- 
ceased was  lying  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his 
head.  Now  the  wound  was  made  from  right  to  left, 
and  terminated  by  a  cut  on  the  left  thumb.  If  the 
deceased  had  made  it  he  would  have  had  to  do  it 
with  his  right  hand,  while  his  left  hand  remained 
under  his  head  —  a  most  peculiar  and  unnatural 
position  to  assume.  Moreover,  in  making  a  cut 
with  the  right  hand,  one  would  naturally  move  the 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  169 

hand  from  left  to  right.  It  is  unlikely  that  the 
deceased  would  move  his  right  hand  so  awkwardly 
and  unnaturally,  unless,  of  course,  his  object  was 
to  baffle  suspicion.  Another  point  is  that  on  this 
hypothesis,  the  deceased  would  have  had  to  replace 
his  right  hand  beneath  his  head.  But  Dr.  Robin- 
son believes  that  death  was  instantaneous.  If  so, 
deceased  could  have  had  no  time  to  pose  so  neatly. 
It  is  just  possible  the  cut  was  made  with  the  left 
hand,  but  then  the  deceased  was  right-handed.  The 
absence  of  any  signs  of  a  possible  weapon  undoubt- 
edly goes  to  corroborate  the  medical  evidence.  The 
police  have  made  an  exhaustive  search  in  all  places 
where  the  razor  or  other  weapon  or  instrument 
might  by  any  possibility  have  been  concealed, 
including  the  bed-clothes,  the  mattress,  the  pillow, 
and  the  street  into  which  it  might  have  been  dropped. 
But  all  theories  involving  the  wilful  concealment  of 
the  fatal  instrument  have  to  reckon  with  the  fact  or 
probability  that  death  was  instantaneous,  also  with  the 
fact  that  there  was  no  blood  about  the  floor.  Finally, 
the  instrument  used  was  in  all  likelihood  a  razor, 
and  the  deceased  did  not  shave,  and  was  never 
known  to  be  in  possession  of  any  such  instrument. 
If,  then,  we  were  to  confine  ourselves  to  the  medical 
and  police  evidence,  there  would,  I  think,  be  little 
hesitation  in  dismissing  the  idea  of  suicide.  Never- 
theless, it  is  well  to  forget  the  physical  aspect  of  the 
case    for  a  moment  and    to    apply  our  minds  to  an 


170  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

unprejudiced  inquiry  into  the  mental  aspect  of  it. 
Was  there  any  reason  why  the  deceased  should  wish 
to  take  his  own  life  ?  He  was  young,  wealthy, 
and  popular,  loving  and  loved ;.  life  stretched  fair 
before  him.  He  had  no  vices.  Plain  living,  high 
thinking,  and  noble  doing  were  the  three  guiding 
stars  of  his  life.  If  he  had  had  ambition,  an  illustri- 
ous public  career  was  within  his  reach.  He  was  an 
orator  of  no  mean  power,  a  brilliant  and  industrious 
man.  His  outlook  was  always  on  the  future  —  he 
was  always  sketching  out  ways  in  which  he  could  be 
useful  to  his  fellow-men.  His  purse  and  his  time 
were  ever  at  the  command  of  whosoever  could  show 
fair  claim  upon  them.  If  such  a  man  were  likely  to 
end  his  own  life,  the  science  of  human  nature  would  be 
at  an  end.  Still,  some  of  the  shadows  of  the  picture 
have  been  presented  to  us.  The  man  had  his  moments 
of  despondency  —  as  which  of  us  has  not  ?  But  they 
seem  to  have  been  few  and  passing.  Anyhow,  he 
was  cheerful  enough  on  the  day  before  his  death. 
He  was  suffering,  too,  from  toothache.  But  it  does 
not  seem  to  have  been  violent,  nor  did  he  complain. 
Possibly,  of  course,  the  pain  became  very  acute  in 
the  night.  Nor  must  we  forget  that  he  may  have 
overworked  himself,  and  got  his  nerves  into  a  morbid 
state.  He  worked  very  hard,  never  rising  later  than 
half-past  seven,  and  doing  far  more  than  the  profes- 
sional 'labour  leader.'  He  taught,  and  wrote,  as 
well  as  spoke  and  organised.     But  on  the  other  hand 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  171 

all  witnesses  agreed  that  he  was  looking  forward 
eagerly  to  the  meeting  of  tram-men  on  the  morning  of 
the  4th  inst.  His  whole  heart  was  in  the  movement. 
Is  it  likely  that  this  was  the  night  he  would  choose  for 
quitting  the  scene  of  his  usefulness  ?  Is  it  likely 
that  if  he  had  chosen  it,  he  would  not  have  left 
letters  and  a  statement  behind,  or  made  a  last  will 
and  testament?  Mr.  Wimp  has  found  no  possible 
clue  to  such  conduct  in  his  papers.  Or  is  it  likely 
he  would  have  concealed  the  instrument  ?  The  only 
positive  sign  of  intention  is  the  bolting  of  his  door 
in  addition  to  the  usual  locking  of  it,  but  one  cannot 
lay  much  stress  on  that.  Regarding  the  mental 
aspects  alone,  the  balance  is  largely  against  suicide ; 
looking  at  the  physical  aspects,  suicide  is  well-nigh 
impossible.  Putting  the  two  together,  the  case 
against  suicide  is  all  but  mathematically  complete. 
The  answer,  then,  to  our  first  question,  Did  the 
deceased  commit  suicide  ?    is,  that  he  did  not." 

The  coroner  paused,  and  everybody  drew  a  long 
breath.  The  lucid  exposition  had  been  followed 
with  admiration.  If  the  coroner  had  stopped  now, 
the  jury  would  have  unhesitatingly  returned  a  ver- 
dict of  "  murder."  But  the  coroner  swallowed  a 
mouthful  of  water  and  went  on  :  — 

"  We  now  come  to  the  second  alternative  —  was 
the  deceased  the  victim  of  homicide  ?  In  order  to 
answer  that  question  in  the  affirmative  it  is  essential 
that  we  should  be  able  to  form  some  conception  of 


172  THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

the  modus  operandi.  It  is  all  very  well  for  Dr. 
Robinson  to  say  the  cut  was  made  by  another  hand  ; 
but  in  the  absence  of  any  theory  as  to  how  the  cut 
could  possibly  have  been  made  by  that  other  hand, 
we  should  be  driven  back  to  the  theory  of  self-inflic- 
tion, however  improbable  it  may  seem  to  medical 
gentlemen.  Now,  what  are  the  facts  ?  When 
Mrs.  Drabdump  and  Mr.  Grodman  found  the  body 
it  was  yet  warm,  and  Mr.  Grodman,  a  witness  for- 
tunately qualified  by  special  experience,  states  that 
death  had  been  quite  recent.  This  tallies  closely 
enough  with  the  view  of  Dr.  Robinson,  who,  exam- 
ining the  body  about  an  hour  later,  put  the  time  of 
death  at  two  or  three  hours  before,  say  seven  o'clock. 
Mrs.  Drabdump  had  attempted  to  wake  the  de- 
ceased at  a  quarter  to  seven,  which  would  put  back 
the  act  to  a  little  earlier.  As  I  understand  from 
Dr.  Robinson,  that  it  is  impossible  to  fix  the  time 
very  precisely,  death  may  have  very  well  taken 
place  several  hours  before  Mrs.  Drabdump's  first 
attempt  to  wake  deceased.  Of  course,  it  may  have 
taken  place  between  the  first  and  second  calls,  as  he 
may  merely  have  been  sound  asleep  at  first ;  it 
may  also  not  impossibly  have  taken  place  consider- 
ably earlier  than  the  first  call,  for  all  the  physical 
data  seem  to  prove.  Nevertheless,  on  the  whole, 
I  think  we  shall  be  least  likely  to  err  if  we  assume 
the  time  of  death  to  be  half-past  six.  Gentlemen, 
let  us  picture  to    ourselves    No.    1 1    Glover    Street, 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  173 

at  half-past  six.  We  have  seen  the  house ;  we 
know  exactly  how  it  is  constructed.  On  the 
ground  floor  a  front  room  tenanted  by  Mr.  Mort- 
lake,  with  two  windows  giving  on  the  street,  both 
securely  bolted ;  a  back  room  occupied  by  the  land- 
lady ;  and  a  kitchen.  Mrs.  Drabdump  did  not  leave 
her  bedroom  till  half-past  six,  so  that  we  may  be  sure 
all  the  various  doors  and  windows  have  not  yet  been 
unfastened  ;  while  the  season  of  the  year  is  a  guar- 
antee that  nothing  had  been  left  open.  The  front 
door,  through  which  Mr.  Mortlake  has  gone  out 
before  half-past  four,  is  guarded  by  the  latch-key  lock 
and  the  big  lock.  On  the  upper  floor  are  two  rooms 
—  a  front  room  used  by  deceased  for  a  bedroom,  and 
a  back  room  which  he  used  as  a  sitting-room.  The 
back  room  has  been  left  open,  with  the  key  inside, 
but  the  window  is  fastened.  The  door  of  the  front 
room  is  not  only  locked  but  bolted.  We  have  seen 
the  splintered  mortice  and  the  staple  of  the  upper 
bolt  violently  forced  from  the  woodwork  and  resting 
on  the  pin.  The  windows  are  bolted,  the  fasteners 
being  firmly  fixed  in  the  catches.  The  chimney  is 
too  narrow  to  admit  of  the  passage  of  even  a  child. 
This  room,  in  fact,  is  as  firmly  barred  in  as  if  be- 
sieged. It  has  no  communication  with  any  other 
part  of  the  house.  It  is  as  absolutely  self-centred 
and  isolated  as  if  it  were  a  fort  in  the  sea  or  a  log- 
hut  in  the  forest.  Even  if  any  strange  person  is  in 
the  house,   nay,  in  the  very  sitting-room  of  the  de- 


174  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

ceased,  he  cannot  get  into  the  bedroom,  for  the 
house  is  one  built  for  the  poor,  with  no  communica- 
tion between  the  different  rooms,  so  that  separate 
families,  if  need  be,  may  inhabit  each.  Now,  how- 
ever, let  us  grant  that  some  person  has  achieved  the 
miracle  of  getting  into  the  front  room,  first  floor,  18 
feet  from  the  ground.  At  half-past  six,  or  there- 
abouts, he  cuts  the  throat  of  the  sleeping  occupant. 
How  is  he  then  to  get  out  without  attracting  the 
attention  of  the  now  roused  landlady  ?  But  let  us 
concede  him  that  miracle,  too.  How  is  he  to  go 
away  and  yet  leave  the  doors  and  windows  locked 
and  bolted  from  within  ?  This  is  a  degree  of  miracle 
at  which  my  credulity  must  draw  the  line.  No,  the 
room  had  been  closed  all  night  —  there  is  scarce  a 
trace  of  fog  in  it.  No  one  could  get  in  or  out. 
Finally,  murders  do  not  take  place  without  motive. 
Robbery  and  revenge  are  the  only  conceivable 
motives.  The  deceased  had  not  an  enemy  in  the 
world ;  his  money  and  valuables  were  left  un- 
touched. Everything  was  in  order.  There  were  no 
signs  of  a  struggle.  The  answer,  then,  to  our  second 
inquiry,  Was  the  deceased  killed  by  another  person? 
is,  that  he  was  not. 

"  Gentlemen,  I  am  aware  that  this  sounds  impos- 
sible and  contradictory.  But  it  is  the  facts  that 
contradict  themselves.  It  seems  clear  that  the 
deceased  did  not  commit  suicide.  It  seems  equally 
clear  that  the  deceased  was  not  murdered.     There  is 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  175 

nothing  for  it,  therefore,  gentlemen,  but  to  return  a 
verdict  tantamount  to  an  acknowledgment  of  our  in- 
competence to  come  to  any  adequately  grounded 
conviction  whatever  as  to  the  means  or  the  manner 
by  which  the  deceased  met  his  death.  It  is  the 
most  inexplicable  mystery  in  all  my  experience." 
(Sensation.) 

The  Foreman  (after  a  colloquy  with  Mr.  Sandy 
Sanderson):  We  are  not  agreed,  sir.  One  of  the 
jurors  insists  on  a  verdict  of  "  Death  from  visitation 
by  the  act  of  God." 

IV 

But  Sandy  Sanderson's  burning  solicitude  to  fix 
the  crime  flickered  out  in  the  face  of  opposition,  and 
in  the  end  he  bowed  his  head  to  the  inevitable  "  open 
verdict."  Then  the  floodgates  of  inkland  were 
opened,  and  the  deluge  pattered  for  nine  days  on 
the  deaf  coffin  where  the  poor  idealist  mouldered. 
The  tongues  of  the  Press  were  loosened,  and  the 
leader-writers  revelled  in  recapitulating  the  circum- 
stances of  "The  Big  Bow  Mystery,"  though  they 
could  contribute  nothing  but  adjectives  to  the  solu- 
tion. The  papers  teemed  with  letters  —  it  was  a 
kind  of  Indian  summer  of  the  silly  season.  But  the 
editors  could  not  keep  them  out,  nor  cared  to.  The 
mystery  was  the  one  topic  of  conversation  every- 
where—  it  was  on  the  carpet  and  the  bare  boards 
alike,  in  the  kitchen  and  the  drawing-room.     It  was 


176  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

discussed  with  science  or  stupidity,  with  aspirates 
or  without.  It  came  up  for  breakfast  with  the 
rolls,  and  was  swept  off  the  supper-table  with  the  last 
crumbs. 

No.  1 1  Glover  Street,  Bow,  remained  for  days  a 
shrine  of  pilgrimage.  The  once  sleepy  little  street 
buzzed  from  morning  till  night.  From  all  parts  of 
the  town  people  came  to  stare  up  at  the  bedroom 
window  and  wonder  with  a  foolish  face  of  horror. 
The  pavement  was  often  blocked  for  hours  together, 
and  itinerant  vendors  of  refreshment  made  it  a  new 
market  centre,  while  vocalists  hastened  thither  to 
sing  the  delectable  ditty  of  the  deed  without  having 
any  voice  in  the  matter.  It  was  a  pity  the  Govern- 
ment did  not  erect  a  toll-gate  at  either  end  of  the 
street.  But  Chancellors  of  the  Exchequer  rarely 
avail  themselves  of  the  more  obvious  expedients  for 
paying  off  the  National  Debt. 

Finally,  familiarity  bred  contempt,  and  the  wits 
grew  facetious  at  the  expense  of  the  Mystery.  Jokes 
on  the  subject  appeared  even  in  the  comic  papers. 

To  the  proverb,  "  You  must  not  say  Bo  to  a 
goose,"  one  added,  "  or  else  she  will  explain  you 
the  Mystery."  The  name  of  the  gentleman  who 
asked  whether  the  Bow  Mystery  was  not  'arrowing 
shall  not  be  divulged.  There  was  more  point  in 
"  Dagonet's  "  remark  that,  if  he  had  been  one  of  the 
unhappy  jurymen,  he  should  have  been  driven  to 
"  suicide."     A  professional   paradox-monger  pointed 


THE   BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  177 

triumphantly  to  the    somewhat    similar   situation    in 
"the  murder  in   the   Rue    Morgue,"    and    said    that 
Nature  had  been  plagiarising  again  —  like  the  monkey- 
she  was  —  and  he  recommended  Poe's  publishers  to 
apply  for  an  injunction.     More  seriously,  Poe's  solu- 
tion was  re-suggested  by  "  Constant  Reader  "  as  an 
original   idea.       He    thought    that    a    small    organ- 
grinder's  monkey  might  have  got  down  the  chimney 
with  its  master's  razor,  and,  after  attempting  to  shave 
the  occupant  of  the  bed,  have  returned  the  way  it 
came.     This  idea  created  considerable  sensation,  but 
a  correspondent  with  a  long  train  of  letters  draggling 
after  his  name    pointed    out   that   a    monkey    small 
enough  to  get  down  so  narrow  a  flue  would  not  be 
strong  enough  to  inflict  so  deep  a  wound.     This  was 
disputed  by  a  third  writer,  and  the  contest  raged  so 
keenly  about  the  power  of  monkeys'  muscles  that  it 
was  almost  taken  for  granted  that  a  monkey  was  the 
guilty  party.     The  bubble  was  pricked  by  the  pen  of 
"Common  Sense,"  who  laconically  remarked  that  no 
traces  of  soot  or  blood  had  been  discovered  on  the 
floor,  or  on  the  nightshirt,  or  the  counterpane.     The 
Lancets  leader  on    the    Mystery   was    awaited  with 
interest.      It  said:   "We   cannot  join  in  the  praises 
that  have  been  showered  upon  the  coroner's  summing 
up.     It  shows  again  the  evils  resulting  from  having 
coroners  who   are  not  medical  men.     He   seems  to 
have  appreciated  but  inadequately  the  significance  of 
the    medical    evidence.       He    should    certainly   have 


178  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

directed  the  jury  to  return  a  verdict  of  murder  on 
that.  What  was  it  to  do  with  him  that  he  could  see 
no  way  by  which  the  wound  could  have  been  inflicted 
by  an  outside  agency?  It  was  for  the  police  to  find 
how  that  was  done.  Enough  that  it  was  impossible 
for  the  unhappy  young  man  to  have  inflicted  such 
a  wound,  and  then  to  have  strength  and  will  power 
enough  to  hide  the  instrument  and  to  remove  per- 
fectly every  trace  of  his  having  left  the  bed  for  the 
purpose."  It  is  impossible  to  enumerate  all  the 
theories  propounded  by  the  amateur  detectives,  while 
Scotland  Yard  religiously  held  its  tongue.  Ulti- 
mately the  interest  on  the  subject  became  confined 
to  a  few  papers  which  had  received  the  best  letters. 
Those  papers  that  couldn't  get  interesting  letters 
stopped  the  correspondence  and  sneered  at  the 
"sensationalism"  of  those  that  could.  Among  the 
mass  of  fantasy  there  were  not  a  few  notable  solu- 
tions, which  failed  brilliantly,  like  rockets  posing  as 
fixed  stars.  One  was  that  in  the  obscurity  of  the  fog 
the  murderer  had  ascended  to  the  window  of  the  bed- 
room by  means  of  a  ladder  from  the  pavement.  He 
had  then  with  a  diamond  cut  one  of  the  panes  away, 
and  effected  an  entry  through  the  aperture.  On 
leaving  he  fixed  in  the  pane  of  glass  again  (or 
another  which  he  had  brought  with  him)  and  thus 
the  room  remained  with  its  bolts  and  locks  un- 
touched. On  its  being  pointed  out  that  the  panes 
were  too  small,  a  third  correspondent  showed   that 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  179 

that  didn't  matter,  as  it  was  only  necessary  to  insert 
the  hand  and  undo  the  fastening,  when  the  entire 
window  could  be  opened,  the  process  being  reversed 
by  the  murderer  on  leaving.  This  pretty  edifice 
of  glass  was  smashed  by  a  glazier,  who  wrote  to  say 
that  a  pane  could  hardly  be  fixed  in  from  only  one 
side  of  a  window  frame,  that  it  would  fall  out  when 
touched,  and  that  in  any  case  the  wet  putty  could  not 
have  escaped  detection.  A  door  panel  sliced  out 
and  replaced  was  also  put  forward,  and  as  many 
trap-doors  and  secret  passages  were  ascribed  to 
No.  1 1  Glover  Street,  as  if  it  were  a  mediaeval  castle. 
Another  of  these  clever  theories  was  that  the  mur- 
derer was  in  the  room  the  whole  time  the  police  were 
there  —  hidden  in  the  wardrobe.  Or  he  had  got 
behind  the  door  when  Grodman  broke  it  open,  so 
that  he  was  not  noticed  in  the  excitement  of  the  dis- 
covery, and  escaped  with  his  weapon  at  the  moment 
when  Grodman  and  Mrs.  Drabdump  were  examining 
the  window  fastenings. 

Scientific  explanations  also  were  to  hand  to  explain 
how  the  assassin  locked  and  bolted  the  door  behind 
him.  Powerful  magnets  outside  the  door  had  been 
used  to  turn  the  key  and  push  the  bolt  within.  Mur- 
derers armed  with  magnets  loomed  on  the  popular 
imagination  like  a  new  microbe.  There  was  only 
one  defect  in  this  ingenious  theory  —  the  thing  could 
not  be  done.  A  physiologist  recalled  the  conjurers 
who  swallow  swords  —  by  an  anatomical  peculiarity 


180  THE   BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

of  the  throat  —  and  said  that  the  deceased  might 
have  swallowed  the  weapon  after  cutting  his  own 
throat.  This  was  too  much  for  the  public  to  swal- 
low. As  for  the  idea  that  the  suicide  had  been 
effected  with  a  penknife  or  its  blade,  or  a  bit  of 
steel,  which  had  then  got  buried  in  the  wound,  not 
even  the  quotation  of  Shelley's  line :  — 

"  Makes  such  a  wound,  the  knife  is  lost  in  it," 

could  secure  it  a  moment's  acceptance.  The  same 
reception  was  accorded  to  the  idea  that  the  cut  had 
been  made  with  a  candle-stick  (or  other  harmless 
necessary  bedroom  article)  constructed  like  a  sword 
stick.  Theories  of  this  sort  caused  a  humorist  to 
explain  that  the  deceased  had  hidden  the  razor  in 
his  hollow  tooth !  Some  kind  friend  of  Messrs. 
Maskelyne  and  Cook  suggested  that  they  were  the 
only  persons  who  could  have  done  the  deed,  as  no 
one  else  could  get  out  of  a  locked  cabinet.  But  per- 
haps the  most  brilliant  of  these  flashes  of  false  fire 
was  the  facetious,  yet  probably  half-seriously  meant 
letter  that  appeared  in  the  Pell  Mell  Press  under  the 
heading  of 

"The  Big  Bow  Mystery  Solved 

"  Sir,  —  You  will  remember  that  when  the  White- 
chapel  murders  were  agitating  the  universe,  I  sug- 
gested that  the  district  coroner  was  the  assassin. 
My  suggestion  has  been  disregarded.  The  coroner 
is    still  at  large.     So  is  the  Whitechapel  murderer. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  181 

Perhaps  this  suggestive  coincidence  will  incline  the 
authorities  to  pay  more  attention  to  me  this  time. 
The  problem  seems  to  be  this.  The  deceased  could 
not  have  cut  his  own  throat.  The  deceased  could 
not  have  had  his  throat  cut  for  him.  As  one  of  the 
two  must  have  happened,  this  is  obvious  nonsense. 
As  this  is  obvious  nonsense  I  am  justified  in  disbe- 
lieving it.  As  this  obvious  nonsense  was  primarily- 
put  in  circulation  by  Mrs.  Drabdump  and  Mr.  Grod- 
man,  I  am  justified  in  disbelieving  them.  In  short, 
sir,  what  guarantee  have  we  that  the  whole  tale  is 
not  a  cock-and-bull  story,  invented  by  the  two  per- 
sons who  first  found  the  body  ?  What  proof  is  there 
that  the  deed  was  not  done  by  these  persons  them- 
selves, who  then  went  to  work  to  smash  the  door 
and  break  the  locks  and  the  bolts,  and  fasten  up  all 
the  windows  before  they  called  the  police  in?  —  I 
enclose  my  card,  and  am,  sir,  yours  truly, 
"One  who  looks  through  his  own  spectacles." 

"  [Our  correspondent's  theory  is  not  so  audaciously 
original  as  he  seems  to  imagine.  Has  he  not  looked 
through  the  spectacles  of  the  people  who  persistently 
suggested  that  the  Whitechapel  murderer  was  invari- 
ably the  policeman  who  found  the  body  ?  Somebody 
must  find  the  body,  if  it  is  to  be  found  at  all.  —  Ed. 
P.M.P.y 

The  editor  had  reason  to  be  pleased  that  he 
inserted    this    letter,    for    it    drew    the    following    in- 


182  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

teresting    communication    from   the   great   detective 
himself :  — 

"  The  Big  Bow  Mystery  Solved 

"  Sir,  —  I  do  not  agree  with  you  that  your  cor- 
respondent's theory  lacks  originality.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  think  it  is  delightfully  original.  In  fact  it 
has  given  me  an  idea.  What  that  idea  is  I  do  not 
yet  propose  to  say,  but  if  '  One  who  looks  through 
his  own  spectacles '  will  favour  me  with  his  name 
and  address  I  shall  be  happy  to  inform  him  a  little 
before  the  rest  of  the  world  whether  his  germ  has 
borne  any  fruit.  I  feel  he  is  a  kindred  spirit,  and 
take  this  opportunity  of  saying  publicly  that  I  was 
extremely  disappointed  at  the  unsatisfactory  verdict. 
The  thing  was  a  palpable  assassination  ;  an  open 
verdict  has  a  tendency  to  relax  the  exertions  of  Scot- 
land Yard.  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  accused  of  immod- 
esty, or  of  making  personal  reflections,  when  I  say 
that  the  Department  has  had  several  notorious  fail- 
ures of  late.  It  is  not  what  it  used  to  be.  Crime  is 
becoming  impertinent.  It  no  longer  knows  its  place, 
so  to  speak.  It  throws  down  the  gauntlet  where 
once  it  used  to  cower  in  its  fastnesses.  I  repeat,  I 
make  these  remarks  solely  in  the  interest  of  law  and 
order.  I  do  not  for  one  moment  believe  that  Arthur 
Constant  killed  himself,  and  if  Scotland  Yard  satis- 
fies itself  with  that  explanation,  and  turns  on  its  other 
side  and  goes  to  sleep   again,  then,  sir,  one  of  the 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  183 

foulest  and  most  horrible  crimes  of  the  century  will 
for  ever  go  unpunished.     My  acquaintance  with  the 
unhappy  victim    was   but   recent ;    still,   I    saw    and 
knew  enough  of  the  man  to  be  certain  (and  I  hope 
I    have    seen    and  known  enough   of    other  men  to 
judge)  that  he  was  a  man  constitutionally  incapable 
of    committing  an  act  of   violence,  whether    against 
himself  or  anybody  else.     He  would  not  hurt  a  fly, 
as  the  saying  goes.     And  a  man  of  that  gentle  stamp 
always  lacks  the  active  energy  to  lay  hands  on  him- 
self.    He  was  a  man  to  be  esteemed  in  no  common 
degree,  and  I  feel  proud  to  be  able  to  say  that  he 
considered  me  a  friend.     I  am  hardly  at  the  time  of 
life   at  which  a  man    cares    to    put   on   his   harness 
again;    but,  sir,  it  is  impossible  that  I   should  ever, 
know  a  day's  rest  till   the    perpetrator  of   this  foul 
deed  is  discovered.       I  have  already  put  myself  in 
communication  with  the  family  of  the  victim,  who, 
I  am  pleased  to  say,  have  every  confidence  in  me, 
and  look  to  me  to  clear  the  name  of  their  unhappy 
relative  from  the  semi-imputation  of  suicide.     I  shall 
be  pleased  if  any  one  who  shares  my  distrust  of  the 
authorities,  and  who  has  any  clue  whatever  to  this 
terrible  mystery  or  any  plausible  suggestion  to  offer, 
if,  in    brief,  any  '  One  who  looks  through    his  own 
spectacles '    will    communicate  with  me.     If  I  were 
asked    to  indicate  the  direction  in  which  new  clues 
might  be  most  usefully  sought,  I  should  say,  in  the 
first  instance,  anything  is  valuable  that  helps  us  to 


184  THE   BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

piece  together  a  complete  picture  of  the  manifold 
activities  of  the  man  in  the  East-end.  He  entered 
one  way  or  another  into  the  lives  of  a  good  many- 
people  ;  is  it  true  that  he  nowhere  made  enemies  ? 
With  the  best  intentions  a  man  may  wound  or 
offend  ;  his  interference  may  be  resented  ;  he  may 
even  excite  jealousy.  A  young  man  like  the  late 
Mr.  Constant  could  not  have  had  as  much  practical 
sagacity  as  he  had  goodness.  Whose  corns  did  he 
tread  on  ?  The  more  we  know  of  the  last  few 
months  of  his  life  the  more  we  shall  know  of  the 
manner  of  his  death.  Thanking  you  by  anticipation 
for  the  insertion  of  this  letter  in  your  valuable 
columns,  I  am,  sir,  yours  truly, 

"  George  Grodman. 
"46  Glover  Street,  Bow. 

"  P.  S.  —  Since  writing  the  above  lines,  I  have,  by 
the  kindness  of  Miss  Brent,  been  placed  in  posses- 
sion of  a  most  valuable  letter,  probably  the  last  letter 
written  by  the  unhappy  gentleman.  It  is  dated  Mon- 
day, 3  December,  the  very  eve  of  the  murder,  and 
was  addressed  to  her  at  Florence,  and  has  now,  after 
some  delay,  followed  her  back  to  London  where  the 
sad  news  unexpectedly  brought  her.  It  is  a  letter 
couched,  on  the  whole,  in  the  most  hopeful  spirit, 
and  speaks  in  detail  of  his  schemes.  Of  course  there 
are  things  in  it  not  meant  for  the  ears  of  the  public, 
but  there  can  be  no  harm  in  transcribing  an  impor- 
tant passage :  — 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  185 

" '  You  seem  to  have  imbibed  the  idea  that  the 
East-end  is  a  kind  of  Golgotha,  and  this  despite  that 
the  books  out  of  which  you  probably  got  it  are  care- 
fully labelled  "  Fiction."  Lamb  says  somewhere  that 
we  think  of  the  "Dark  Ages"  as  literally  without 
sunlight,  and  so  I  fancy  people  like  you,  dear,  think 
of  the  "  East-end  "  as  a  mixture  of  mire,  misery,  and 
murder.  How's  that  for  alliteration  ?  Why,  within 
five  minutes'  walk  of  me  there  are  the  loveliest 
houses,  with  gardens  back  and  front,  inhabited  by  very 
fine  people  and  furniture.  Many  of  my  university 
friends'  mouths  would  water  if  they  knew  the  income 
of  some  of  the  shopkeepers  in  the  High  Road. 

"  'The  rich  people  about  here  may  not  be  so  fash- 
ionable as  those  in  Kensington  and  Bayswater,  but 
they  are  every  bit  as  stupid  and  materialistic.  I 
don't  deny,  Lucy,  I  do  have  my  black  moments,  and 
I  do  sometimes  pine  to  get  away  from  all  this  to  the 
lands  of  sun  and  lotus-eating.  But,  on  the  whole,  I 
am  too  busy  even  to  dream  of  dreaming.  My  real 
black  moments  are  when  I  doubt  if  I  am  really  doing 
any  good.  But  yet  on  the  whole  my  conscience  or 
my  self-conceit  tells  me  that  I  am.  If  one  cannot 
do  much  with  the  mass,  there  is  at  least  the  conso- 
lation of  doing  good  to  the  individual.  And,  after 
all,  is  it  not  enough  to  have  been  an  influence  for 
good  over  one  or  two  human  souls  ?  There  are  quite 
fine  characters  hereabout  —  especially  in  the  women 
—  natures  capable  not  only  of    self-sacrifice,  but  of 


186  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

delicacy  of  sentiment.  To  have  learnt  to  know  of 
such,  to  have  been  of  service  to  one  or  two  of  such 
—  is  not  this  ample  return?  I  could  not  get  to  St. 
James's  Hall  to  hear  your  friend's  symphony  at  the 
Henschel  concert.  I  have  been  reading  Mme. 
Blavatsky's  latest  book,  and  getting  quite  interested 
in  occult  philosophy.  Unfortunately  I  have  to  do 
all  my  reading  in  bed,  and  I  don't  find  the  book  as 
soothing  a  soporific  as  most  new  books.  For  keep- 
ing one  awake  I  find  Theosophy  as  bad  as  tooth- 
ache. .  .  .'" 

"  The  Big  Bow  Mystery  Solved 

"  Sir,  —  I  wonder  if  any  one  besides  myself  has 
been  struck  by  the  incredible  bad  taste  of  Mr.  Grod- 
man's  letter  in  your  last  issue.  That  he,  a  former 
servant  of  the  Department,  should  publicly  insult 
and  run  it  down  can  only  be  charitably  explained  by 
the  supposition  that  his  judgment  is  failing  him  in 
his  old  age.  In  view  of  this  letter,  are  the  relatives 
of  the  deceased  justified  in  entrusting  him  with  any 
private  documents  ?  It  is,  no  doubt,  very  good  of 
him  to  undertake  to  avenge  one  whom  he  seems 
snobbishly  anxious  to  claim  as  a  friend  ;  but,  all 
things  considered,  should  not  his  letter  have  been 
headed  '  The  Big  Bow  Mystery  Shelved  '  ?  I  enclose 
my  card,  and  am,  sir, 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"Scotland  Yard." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  187 

George  Grodman  read  this  letter  with  annoyance, 
and  crumpling  up  the  paper,  murmured  scornfully, 
"  Edward  Wimp  !  " 


"  Yes,  but  what  will  become  of  the  Beautiful  ?  "  said 
Denzil  Cantercot. 

"  Hang  the  Beautiful !  "  said  Peter  Crowl,  as  if  he 
were  on  the  committee  of  the  Academy.  "  Give  me 
the  True." 

Denzil  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  He  didn't  happen 
to  have  it  about  him. 

Denzil  Cantercot  stood  smoking  a  cigarette  in  his 
landlord's  shop,  and  imparting  an  air  of  distinction 
and  an  agreeable  aroma  to  the  close  leathery  atmos- 
phere. Crowl  cobbled  away,  talking  to  his  tenant 
without  raising  his  eyes.  He  was  a  small,  big- 
headed,  sallow,  sad-eyed  man,  with  a  greasy  apron. 
Denzil  was  wearing  a  heavy  overcoat  with  a  fur  col- 
lar. He  was  never  seen  without  it  in  public  during 
the  winter.  In  private  he  removed  it  and  sat  in  his 
shirt  sleeves.  Crowl  was  a  thinker,  or  thought  he 
was  —  which  seems  to  involve  original  thinking  any- 
way. His  hair  was  thinning  rapidly  at  the  top,  as 
if  his  brain  was  struggling  to  get  as  near  as  possible 
to  the  realities  of  things.  He  prided  himself  on  hav- 
ing no  fads.  Few  men  are  without  some  foible  or 
hobby ;  Crowl  felt  almost  lonely  at  times  in  his  su- 
periority.      He    was    a   Vegetarian,    a    Secularist,    a 


188  THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

Blue  Ribbonite,  a  Republican,  and  an  Anti-tobacco- 
nist. Meat  was  a  fad.  Drink  was  a  fad.  Religion 
was  a  fad.  Monarchy  was  a  fad.  Tobacco  was  a 
fad.  "  A  plain  man  like  me,"  Crowl  used  to  say, 
"can  live  without  fads."  "A  plain  man"  was 
Crowl's  catchword.  When  of  a  Sunday  morning  he 
stood  on  Mile-end  Waste,  which  was  opposite  his 
shop  —  and  held  forth  to  the  crowd  on  the  evils  of 
kings,  priests,  and  mutton  chops,  the  "plain  man" 
turned  up  at  intervals  like  the  "theme"  of  a  sym- 
phonic movement.  "  I  am  only  a  plain  man  and  I 
want  to  know."  It  was  a  phrase  that  sabred  the 
spider-webs  of  logical  refinement,  and  held  them  up 
scornfully  on  the  point.  When  Crowl  went  for  a 
little  recreation  in  Victoria  Park  on  Sunday  after- 
noons, it  was  with  this  phrase  that  he  invariably 
routed  the  supernaturalists.  Crowl  knew  his  Bible 
better  than  most  ministers,  and  always  carried  a  mi- 
nutely printed  copy  in  his  pocket,  dog's-eared  to  mark 
contradictions  in  the  text.  The  second  chapter  of 
Jeremiah  says  one  thing  ;  the  first  chapter  of  Corin- 
thians says  another.  Two  contradictory  statements 
may  both  be  true,  but  "  I  am  only  a  plain  man,  and 
I  want  to  know."  Crowl  spent  a  large  part  of  his 
time  in  setting  "  the  word  against  the  word."  Cock- 
fighting  affords  its  votaries  no  acuter  pleasure  than 
Crowl  derived  from  setting  two  texts  by  the  ears. 
Crowl  had  a  metaphysical  genius  which  sent  his 
Sunday   morning   disciples    frantic  with    admiration, 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  189 

and  struck  the  enemy  dumb  with  dismay.  He  had 
discovered,  for  instance,  that  the  Deity  could  not 
move,  owing  to  already  filling  all  space.  He  was 
also  the  first  to  invent,  for  the  confusion  of  the  cleri- 
cal, the  crucial  case  of  a  saint  dying  at  the  Antipodes 
contemporaneously  with  another  in  London.  Both 
went  skyward  to  heaven,  yet  the  two  travelled  in 
directly  opposite  directions.  In  all  eternity  they 
would  never  meet.  Which,  then,  got  to  heaven  ?  Or 
was  there  no  such  place  ?  "  I  am  only  a  plain  man, 
and  I  want  to  know." 

Preserve  us  our  open  spaces ;  they  exist  to  testify 
to  the  incurable  interest  of  humanity  in  the  Unknown 
and  the  Misunderstood.  Even  'Arry  is  capable  of 
five  minutes'  attention  to  speculative  theology,  if 
'Arriet  isn't  in  a  'urry. 

Peter  Crowl  was  not  sorry  to  have  a  lodger  like 
Denzil  Cantercot,  who,  though  a  man  of  parts  and 
thus  worth  powder  and  shot,  was  so  hopelessly  wrong 
on  all  subjects  under  the  sun.  In  only  one  point 
did  Peter  Crowl  agree  with  Denzil  Cantercot  —  he 
admired  Denzil  Cantercot  secretly.  When  he  asked 
him  for  the  True  —  which  was  about  twice  a  day  on 
the  average  —  he  didn't  really  expect  to  get  it  from 
him.     He  knew  that  Denzil  was  a  poet. 

"  The  Beautiful,"  he  went  on,  "  is  a  thing  that  only 
appeals  to  men  like  you.  The  True  is  for  all  men. 
The  majority  have  the  first  claim.  Till  then  you 
poets  must  stand  aside.     The  True  and  the  Useful 


190  THE   BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

—  that's  what  we  want.  The  Good  of  Society  is  the 
only  test  of  things.  Everything  stands  or  falls  by 
the  Good  of  Society." 

"  The  Good  of  Society  !  "  echoed  Denzil,  scornfully. 
"What's  the  good  of  Society?  The  Individual  is 
before  all.  The  mass  must  be  sacrificed  to  the  Great 
Man.  Otherwise  the  Great  Man  will  be  sacrificed  to 
the  mass.  Without  great  men  there  would  be  no 
art.     Without  art  life  would  be  a  blank." 

"Ah,  but  we  should  fill  it  up  with  bread  and  but- 
ter," said  Peter  Crowl. 

"  Yes,  it  is  bread  and  butter  that  kills  the  Beauti- 
ful," said  Denzil  Cantercot,  bitterly.  "  Many  of  us 
start  by  following  the  butterfly  through  the  verdant 
meadows,  but  we  turn  aside  —  " 

"To  get  the  grub,"  chuckled  Peter,  cobbling 
away. 

"  Peter,  if  you  make  a  jest  of  everything,  I'll  not 
waste  my  time  on  you." 

Denzil's  wild  eyes  flashed  angrily.  He  shook  his 
long  hair.  Life  was  very  serious  to  him.  He  never 
wrote  comic  verse  intentionally. 

There  are  three  reasons  why  men  of  genius  have 
long  hair.  One  is,  that  they  forget  it  is  growing. 
The  second  is,  that  they  like  it.  The  third  is,  that 
it  comes  cheaper ;  they  wear  it  long  for  the  same 
reason  that  they  wear  their  hats  long. 

Owing  to  this  peculiarity  of  genius,  you  may  get 
quite  a  reputation  for  lack  of  twopence.      The  eco- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  191 

nomic  reason  did  not  apply  to  Denzil,  who  could 
always  get  credit  with  the  profession  on  the  strength 
of  his  appearance.  Therefore,  when  street  arabs 
vocally  commanded  him  to  get  his  hair  cut,  they  were 
doing  no  service  to  barbers.  Why  does  all  the 
world  watch  over  barbers  and  conspire  to  promote 
their  interests  ?  Denzil  would  have  told  you  it  was 
not  to  serve  the  barbers,  but  to  gratify  the  crowd's 
instinctive  resentment  of  originality.  In  his  palmy 
days  Denzil  had  been  an  editor,  but  he  no  more 
thought  of  turning  his  scissors  against  himself  than 
of  swallowing  his  paste.  The  efficacy  of  hair  has 
changed  since  the  days  of  Samson,  otherwise  Denzil 
would  have  been  a  Hercules  instead  of  a  Ions:,  thin, 
nervous  man,  looking  too  brittle  and  delicate  to  be 
used  even  for  a  pipe-cleaner.  The  narrow  oval  of 
his  face  sloped  to  a  pointed,  untrimmed  beard.  His 
linen  was  reproachable,  his  dingy  boots  were  down  at 
heel,  and  his  cocked  hat  was  drab  with  dust.  Such 
are  the  effects  of  a  love  for  the  Beautiful. 

Peter  Crowl  was  impressed  with  Denzil's  condem- 
nation of  flippancy,  and  he  hastened  to  turn  off  the 
joke. 

"I'm  quite  serious,"  he  said.  "Butterflies  are  no 
good  to  nothing  or  nobody;  caterpillars  at  least  save 
the  birds  from  starving." 

"  Just  like  your  view  of  things,  Peter,  "  said  Denzil. 
"Good  morning,  madam."  This  to  Mrs.  Crowl,  to 
whom  he  removed  his  hat  with  elaborate  courtesy. 


192  THE   BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

Mrs.  Crowl  grunted  and  looked  at  her  husband  with 
a  note  of  interrogation  in  each  eye.  For  some  sec- 
onds Crowl  stuck  to  his  last,  endeavouring  not  to  see 
the  question.  He  shifted  uneasily  on  his  stool.  His 
wife  coughed  grimly.  He  looked  up,  saw  her  tower- 
ing over  him,  and  helplessly  shook  his  head  in  a  hor- 
izontal direction.  It  was  wonderful  how  Mrs.  Crowl 
towered  over  Mr.  Crowl,  even  when  he  stood  up  in 
his  shoes.  She  measured  half  an  inch  less.  It  was 
quite  an  optical  illusion. 

"  Mr.  Crowl,"  said  Mrs.  Crowl,  "  then  I'll  tell  him." 

"  No,  no,  my  dear,  not  yet,"  faltered  Peter,  help- 
lessly ;  "  leave  it  to  me." 

"  I've  left  it  to  you  long  enough.  You'll  never  do 
nothing.  If  it  was  a  question  of  provin'  to  a  lot  of 
chuckleheads  that  Jollygee  and  Genesis,  or  some 
other  dead  and  gone  Scripture  folk  that  don't  consarn 
no  mortal  soul,  used  to  contradict  each  other,  your 
tongue  'ud  run  thirteen  to  the  dozen.  But  when  it's 
a  matter  of  takin'  the  bread  out  o'  the  mouths  o'  your 
own  children,  you  ain't  got  no  more  to  say  for  your- 
self than  a  lamp-post.  Here's  a  man  stayin'  with 
you  for  weeks  and  weeks  —  eatin'  and  drinkin'  the 
flesh  off  your  bones  —  without  payin'  a  far — " 

"Hush,  hush,  mother;  it's  all  right,"  said  poor 
Crowl,  red    as    fire. 

Denzil  looked  at  her  dreamily.  "Is  it  possible 
you  are  alluding  to  me,  Mrs.  Crowl  ? "  he  said. 

'"  Who  then  should  I  be  alludin'  to,  Mr.  Cantercot  ? 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  193 

Here's    seven    weeks   come    and    gone,    and   not    a 
blessed    'aypenny  have    I  — " 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Crowl,"  said  Denzil,  removing  his 
cigarette  from  his  mouth  with  a  pained  air,  "  why 
reproach  me  for  your  neglect  ?" 

"  My  neglect!     I  like  that!" 

"  I  don't,"  said  Denzil  more  sharply.  "  If  you  had 
sent  me  in  the  bill  you  would  have  had  the  money 
long  ago.  How  do  you  expect  me  to  think  of  these 
details?" 

"  We  ain't  so  grand  down  here.  People  pays  their 
way  —  they  don't  get  no  bzl/s,"  said  Mrs.  Crowl,  ac- 
centuating the  word  with  infinite  scorn. 

Peter  hammered  away  at  a  nail,  as  though  to 
drown    his    spouse's   voice. 

"  It's  three  pounds  fourteen  and  eightpence,  if 
you're  so  anxious  to  know,"  Mrs.  Crowl  resumed. 
"  And  there  ain't  a  woman  in  the  Mile  End  Road  as 
'ud  a-done  it  cheaper,  with  bread  at  fourpence  three- 
farden  a  quartern  and  landlords  clamburin'  for  rent 
every  Monday  morning  almost  afore  the  sun's  up 
and  folks  draggin'  and  slidderin'  on  till  their  shoes  is 
only  fit  to  throw  after  brides  and  Christmas  comin' 
and  sevenpence  a  week  for  schoolin'  !  ': 

Peter  winced  under  the  last  item.  He  had  felt  it 
coming  —  like  Christmas.  His  wife  and  he  parted 
company  on  the  question  of  Free  Education.  Peter 
felt  that,  having  brought  nine  children  into  the  world, 
it  was  only  fair  he  should  pay  a  penny  a  week  for 


194  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

each  of  those  old  enough  to  bear  educating.  His 
better  half  argued  that,  having  so  many  children, 
they  ought  in  reason  to  be  exempted.  Only  people 
who  had  few  children  could  spare  the  penny.  But 
the  one  point  on  which  the  cobbler-sceptic  of  the 
Mile  End  Road  got  his  way  was  this  of  the  fees.  It 
was  a  question  of  conscience,  and  Mrs.  Crowl  had 
never  made  application  for  their  remission,  though 
she  often  slapped  her  children  in  vexation  instead. 
They  were  used  to  slapping,  and  when  nobody  else 
slapped  them  they  slapped  one  another.  They  were 
bright,  ill-mannered  brats,  who  pestered  their  parents 
and  worried  their  teachers,  and  were  as  happy  as 
the  Road  was  long. 

"  Bother  the  school  fees !  "  Peter  retorted,  vexed. 
"  Mr.  Cantercot's  not  responsible  for  your  children." 

"  I  should  hope  not,  indeed,  Mr.  Crowl,"  Mrs. 
Crowl  said  sternly.  "  I'm  ashamed  of  you."  And 
with  that  she  flounced  out  of  the  shop  into  the 
back  parlour. 

"  It's  all  right,"  Peter  called  after  her  soothingly. 
"The  money'll  be  all  right,  mother." 

In  lower  circles  it  is  customary  to  call  your  wife 
your  mother ;  in  somewhat  superior  circles  it  is  the 
fashion  to  speak  of  her  as  "the  wife,"  as  you  speak 
of  "the  Stock  Exchange,"  or  "the  Thames,"  without 
claiming  any  peculiar  property.  Instinctively  men 
are  ashamed  of  being  moral  and  domesticated. 

Denzil  puffed  his  cigarette,  unembarrassed.     Peter 


THE   BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  195 

bent  attentively  over  his  work,  making  nervous  stabs 
with  his  awl.  There  was  a  long  silence.  An  organ- 
grinder  played  a  waltz  outside,  unregarded ;  and, 
failing  to  annoy  anybody,  moved  on.  Denzil  lit 
another  cigarette.  The  dirty-faced  clock  on  the  wall 
chimed  twelve. 

"What  do  you  think,"  said  Crowl,  "of  Republics?" 

"They    are    low,"    Denzil    replied.      "Without    a 

Monarch  there  is  no  visible  incarnation  of  Author- 

ity-" 

"  What !  do  you  call  Queen  Victoria  visible  ?  " 

"  Peter,  do  you  want  to  drive  me  from  the  house  ? 
Leave  frivolousness  to  women,  whose  minds  are 
only  large  enough  for  domestic  difficulties.  Repub- 
lics are  low.  Plato  mercifully  kept  the  poets  out 
of  his.     Republics  are  not  congenial  soil  for  poetry." 

"  What  nonsense  !  If  England  dropped  its  fad  of 
Monarchy  and  became  a  Republic  to-morrow,  do 
you  mean  to  say  that  —  ?" 

"  I  mean  to  say  there  would  be  no  Poet  Laureate 
to  begin  with." 

"Who's  fribbling  now,  you  or  me,  Cantercot  ? 
But  I  don't  care  a  button-hook  about  poets,  pres- 
ent company  always  excepted.  I'm  only  a  plain  man, 
and  I  want  to  know  where's  the  sense  of  givin'  any 
one  person  authority  over  everybody  else  ?  " 

"Ah.  that's  what  Tom  Mortlake  used  to  say. 
Wait  till  you're  in  power,  Peter,  with  trade-union 
money  to  control,  and  working  men  bursting  to  give 


196  THE   BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

you  flying  angels  and  to  carry  you  aloft,  like  a 
banner,  huzzahing." 

"  Ah,  that's  because  he's  head  and  shoulders  above 
'em  already,"  said  Crowl,  with  a  flash  in  his  sad  grey 
eyes.  "  Still,  it  don't  prove  that  I'd  talk  any  differ- 
ent. And  I  think  you're  quite  wrong  about  his  being 
spoilt.  Tom's  a  fine  fellow  —  a  man  every  inch  of 
him,  and  that's  a  good  many.  I  don't  deny  he  has 
his  weaknesses,  and  there  was  a  time  when  he  stood 
in  this  very  shop  and  denounced  that  poor  dead 
Constant.  '  Crowl,'  said  he,  'that  man'll  do  mischief. 
I  don't  like  these  kid-glove  philanthropists  mixing 
themselves  up  in  practical  labour  disputes  they  don't 
understand.'  " 

Denzil  whistled  involuntarily.  It  was  a  piece  of 
news. 

"  I  dare  say,"  continued  Crowl,  "he's  a  bit  jealous 
of  anybody's  interference  with  his  influence.  But  in 
this  case  the  jealousy  did  wear  off,  you  see,  for  the 
poor  fellow  and  he  got  quite  pals,  as  everybody 
knows.  Tom's  not  the  man  to  hug  a  prejudice. 
However,  all  that  don't  prove  nothing  against 
Republics.  Look  at  the  Czar  and  the  Jews.  I'm 
only  a  plain  man,  but  I  wouldn't  live  in  Russia  not 
for  —  not  for  all  the  leather  in  it!  An  Englishman, 
taxed  as  he  is  to  keep  up  his  Fad  of  Monarchy,  is  at 
least  king  in  his  own  castle,  whoever  bosses  it  at 
Windsor.  Excuse  me  a  minute,  the  missus  is 
caHin'." 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  197 

"  Excuse  me  a  minute.  I'm  going,  and  I  want  to 
say  before  I  go — I  feel  it  only  right  you  should 
know  at  once  —  that  after  what  has  passed  to-day 
I  can  never  be  on  the  same  footing  here  as  in  the 
—  shall  I  say  pleasant?  —  days  of  yore." 

"Oh,  no,  Cantercot.  Don't  say  that;  don't  say 
that!"  pleaded  the  little  cobbler. 

"  Well,  shall  I  say  unpleasant,  then  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  Cantercot.  Don't  misunderstand  me. 
Mother  has  been  very  much  put  to  it  lately  to  rub 
along.  You  see  she  has  such  a  growing  family.  It 
grows  —  daily.  But  never  mind  her.  You  pay 
whenever  you've  got  the  money." 

Denzil  shook  his  head.  "  It  cannot  be.  You  know 
when  I  came  here  first  I  rented  your  top  room  and 
boarded  myself.  Then  I  learnt  to  know  you.  We 
talked  together.  Of  the  Beautiful.  And  the  Useful. 
I  found  you  had  no  soul.  But  you  were  honest,  and 
I  liked  you.  I  went  so  far  as  to  take  my  meals  with 
your  family.  I  made  myself  at  home  in  your  back 
parlour.  But  the  vase  has  been  shattered  (I  do  not 
refer  to  that  on  the  mantelpiece),  and  though  the 
scent  of  the  roses  may  cling  to  it  still,  it  can  be 
pieced  together  —  nevermore."  He  shook  his  hair 
sadly  and  shambled  out  of  the  shop.  Crowl  would 
have  gone  after  him,  but  Mrs.  Crowl  was  still  call- 
ing, and  ladies  must  have  the  precedence  in  all 
polite  societies. 

Cantercot   went   straight  —  or   as   straight   as   his 


198  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

loose  gait  permitted  —  to  46  Glover  Street,  and 
knocked  at  the  door.  Grodman's  factotum  opened 
it.  She  was  a  pock-marked  person,  with  a  brickdust 
complexion  and  a  coquettish  manner. 

"  Oh  !  here  we  are  again  !  "  she  said  vivaciously. 

"  Don't  talk  like  a  clown,"  Cantercot  snapped.  "Is 
Mr.  Grodman  in  ?  " 

"  No,  you've  put  him  out,"  growled  the  gentleman 
himself,  suddenly  appearing  in  his  slippers.  "  Come 
in.  What  the  devil  have  you  been  doing  with  your- 
self since  the  inquest  ?     Drinking  again  ?  " 

"  I've  sworn  off.  Haven't  touched  a  drop 
since  —  " 

"  The  murder  ?  " 

"Eh?"  said  Denzil  Cantercot,  startled.  "What 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  What  I  say.  Since  December  4.  I  reckon  every- 
thing from  that  murder,  now,  as  they  reckon  longi- 
tude from  Greenwich." 

"  Oh,"  said  Denzil  Cantercot. 

"  Let  me  see.  Nearly  a  fortnight.  What  a  long 
time  to  keep  away  from  Drink  —  and  Me." 

"  I  don't  know  which  is  worse,"  said  Denzil,  irri- 
tated.    "You  both  steal  away  my  brains." 

"  Indeed  ? "  said  Grodman,  with  an  amused  smile. 
"  Well,  it's  only  petty  pilfering,  after  all.  What's 
put  salt  on  your  wounds  ? " 

"  The  twenty-fourth  edition  of  my  book." 

"  Whose  book  ?  " 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  199 

"Well,  your  book.  You  must  be  making  piles  of 
money  out  of  Criminals  I  have  Caught." 

"'Criminals  I  have  Caught,"'  corrected  Grodman. 
"  My  dear  Denzil,  how  often  am  I  to  point  out  that 
/  went  through  the  experiences  that  make  the  back- 
bone of  my  book,  not  you  ?  In  each  case  /  cooked 
the  criminal's  goose.  Any  journalist  could  have 
supplied  the  dressing." 

"  The  contrary.  The  journeymen  of  journalism 
would  have  left  the  truth  naked.  You  yourself 
could  have  done  that  —  for  there  is  no  man  to  beat 
you  at  cold,  lucid,  scientific  statement.  But  I 
idealised  the  bare  facts  and  lifted  them  into  the 
realm  of  poetry  and  literature.  The  twenty-fourth 
edition  of  the  book  attests  my  success." 

"  Rot !  The  twenty-fourth  edition  was  all  owing 
to  the  murder.     Did  you  do  that  ?  " 

"You  take  one  up  so  sharply,  Mr.  Grodman,"  said 
Denzil,  changing  his  tone. 

"No  —  I've  retired,"  laughed  Grodman. 

Denzil  did  not  reprove  the  ex-detective's  flippancy. 
He  even  laughed  a  little. 

"Well,  give  me  another  fiver,  and  I'll  cry  'quits.' 
I'm  in  debt." 

"  Not  a  penny.  Why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me 
since  the  murder  ?  I  had  to  write  that  letter  to  the 
Pell  Mell  Press  myself.  You  might  have  earned  a 
crown." 

"I've  had  writer's  cramp,  and    couldn't   do   your 


200  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

last  job.  I  was  coming  to  tell  you  so  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  —  " 

"  Murder.     So  you  said  at  the  inquest." 

"  It's  true." 

"  Of  course.  Weren't  you  on  your  oath  ?  It  was 
very  zealous  of  you  to  get  up  so  early  to  tell  me.  In 
which  hand  did  you  have  this  cramp? " 

"Why,  in  the  right  of  course." 

"And  you  couldn't  write  with  your  left?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  even  hold  a  pen." 

"  Or  any  other  instrument,  mayhap.  What  had 
you  been  doing  to  bring  it  on  ?  " 

"Writing  too  much.  That  is  the  only  possible 
cause." 

"  Oh  !  I  didn't  know.     Writing  what  ?  " 

Denzil  hesitated.     "  An  epic  poem." 

"  No  wonder  you're  in  debt.  Will  a  sovereign  get 
you  out  of  it  ?  " 

"No  ;  it  wouldn't  be  the  least  use  to  me." 

"Here  it  is,  then." 

Denzil  took  the  coin  and  his  hat. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  earn  it,  you  beggar  ?  Sit 
down  and  write  something  for  me." 

Denzil  got  pen  and  paper,  and  took  his  place. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  write  ?  " 

"Your  Epic  Poem." 

Denzil  started  and  flushed.  But  he  set  to  work. 
Grodman  leaned  back  in  his  arm-chair  and  laughed, 
studying  the  poet's  grave  face. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  201 

Denzil  wrote  three  lines  and  paused. 
"  Can't  remember  any  more  ?     Well,  read  me  the 
start." 

Denzil  read  :  — 

"  Of  man's  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world  —  " 

"  Hold  on  !  "  cried  Grodman.  "  What  morbid  sub- 
jects you  choose,  to  be  sure !  " 

"  Morbid  !     Why,  Milton  chose  the  same  subject !  " 

"  Blow  Milton.  Take  yourself  off  —  you  and  your 
Epics." 

Denzil  went.  The  pock-marked  person  opened  the 
street  door  for  him. 

"  When  am  I  to  have  that  new  dress,  dear  ?  "  she 
whispered  coquettishly. 

"  I  have  no  money,  Jane,"  he  said  shortly. 

"You  have  a  sovereign." 

Denzil  gave  her  the  sovereign,  and  slammed  the 
door  viciously.  Grodman  overheard  their  whispers, 
and  laughed  silently.  His  hearing  was  acute.  Jane 
had  first  introduced  Denzil  to  his  acquaintance  about 
two  years  ago,  when  he  spoke  of  getting  an  amanu- 
ensis, and  the  poet  had  been  doing  odd  jobs  for  him 
ever  since.  Grodman  argued  that  Jane  had  her 
reasons.  Without  knowing  them,  he  got  a  hold 
over  both.  There  was  no  one,  he  felt,  he  could  not 
get   a   hold   over.      All    men  —  and   women  —  have 


202  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

something  to  conceal,  and  you  have  only  to  pretend 
to  know  what  it  is.  Thus  Grodman,  who  was  nothing 
if  not  scientific. 

Denzil  Cantercot  shambled  home  thoughtfully,  and 
abstractedly  took  his  place  at  the  Crowl  dinner-table. 

VI 

Mrs.  Crowl  surveyed  Denzil  Cantercot  so  stonily 
and  cut  him  his  beef  so  savagely  that  he  said  grace 
when  the  dinner  was  over.  Peter  fed  his  meta- 
physical genius  on  tomatoes.  He  was  tolerant 
enough  to  allow  his  family  to  follow  their  Fads ; 
but  no  savoury  smells  ever  tempted  him  to  be  false 
to  his  vegetable  loves.  Besides,  meat  might  have 
reminded  him  too  much  of  his  work.  There  is 
nothing  like  leather,  but  Bow  beefsteaks  occasionally 
come  very  near  it. 

After  dinner  Denzil  usually  indulged  in  poetic 
reverie.  But  to-day  he  did  not  take  his  nap.  He 
went  out  at  once  to  "  raise  the  wind."  But  there 
was  a  dead  calm  everywhere.  In  vain  he  asked 
for  an  advance  at  the  office  of  the  Mile  End 
Mirror,  to  which  he  contributed  scathing  leaderettes 
about  vestrymen.  In  vain  he  trudged  to  the  City 
and  offered  to  write  the  Ham  and  Eggs  Gazette  an 
essay  on  the  modern  methods  of  bacon-curing. 
Denzil  knew  a  great  deal  about  the  breeding  and 
slaughtering  of  pigs,  smoke-lofts  and  drying  pro- 
cesses, having  for  years  dictated   the  policy  of   the 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY    ■  203 

New  Pork  Herald  in  these  momentous  matters. 
Denzil  also  knew  a  great  deal  about  many  other 
esoteric  matters,  including  weaving  machines,  the 
manufacture  of  cabbage  leaves  and  snuff,  and  the 
inner  economy  of  drain-pipes.  He  had  written  for 
the  trade  papers  since  boyhood.  But  there  is  great 
competition  on  these  papers.  So  many  men  of  liter- 
ary gifts  know  all  about  the  intricate  technicalities 
of  manufactures  and  markets,  and  are  eager  to  set 
the  trade  right.  Grodman  perhaps  hardly  allowed 
sufficiently  for  the  step  backwards  that  Denzil  made 
when  he  devoted  his  whole  time  for  months  to 
Criminals  I  have  Caught.  It  was  as  damaging  as 
a  debauch.  For  when  your  rivals  are  pushing  for- 
wards, to  stand  still  is  to  go  back. 

In  despair  Denzil  shambled  toilsomely  to  Bethnal 
Green.  He  paused  before  the  window  of  a  little 
tobacconist's  shop,  wherein  was  displayed  a  placard 

announcing 

"  Plots  for  Sale. 

The  announcement  went  on  to  state  that  a  large 
stock  of  plots  was  to  be  obtained  on  the  premises 
—  embracing  sensational  plots,  humorous  plots,  love 
plots,  religious  plots,  and  poetic  plots ;  also  com- 
plete manuscripts,  original  novels,  poems,  and  tales. 
Apply  within. 

It  was  a  very  dirty-looking  shop,  with  begrimed 
bricks  and  blackened  woodwork.  The  window  con- 
tained   some    musty    old    books,    an    assortment    of 


204  •     THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

pipes  and  tobacco,  and  a  large  number  of  the  vilest 
daubs  unhung,  painted  in  oil  on  Academy  boards, 
and  unframed.  These  were  intended  for  landscapes, 
as  you  could  tell  from  the  titles.  The  most  expen- 
sive was  "  Chingford  Church,"  and  it  was  marked 
is.  9d.  The  others  ran  from  6d.  to  is.  3d.,  and 
were  mostly  representations  of  Scottish  scenery  — 
a  loch  with  mountains  in  the  background,  with 
solid  reflections  in  the  water  and  a  tree  in  the  fore- 
ground. Sometimes  the  tree  would  be  in  the  back- 
ground. Then  the  loch  would  be  in  the  foreground. 
Sky  and  water  were  intensely  blue  in  all.  The  name 
of  the  collection  was  "  Original  oil-paintings  done 
by  hand."  Dust  lay  thick  upon  everything,  as  if 
carefully  shovelled  on ;  and  the  proprietor  looked  as 
if  he  slept  in  his  shop-window  at  night  without 
taking  his  clothes  off.  He  was  a  gaunt  man  with 
a  red  nose,  long  but  scanty  black  locks  covered  by 
a  smoking-cap,  and  a  luxuriant  black  moustache. 
He  smoked  a  long  clay  pipe,  and  had  the  air  of  a 
broken-down  operatic  villain. 

"Ah,  good  afternoon,  Mr.  Cantercot,"  he  said, 
rubbing  his  hands,  half  from  cold,  half  from  usage ; 
"what  have  you  brought  me  ?  " 

"Nothing,"  said  Denzil,  "but  if  you  will  lend  me 
a  sovereign  I'll  do  you  a  stunner." 

The  operatic  villain  shook  his  locks,  his  eyes  full 
of  pawky  cunning.  "If  you  did  it  after  that,  it 
would  be  a  stunner." 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  205 

What  the  operatic  villain  did  with  these  plots,  and 
who  bought  them,  Cantercot  never  knew  nor  cared 
to  know.  Brains  are  cheap  to-day,  and  Denzil  was 
glad  enough  to  find  a  customer. 

"  Surely  you've  known  me  long  enough  to  trust 
me,"  he  cried. 

"Trust  is  dead,"  said  the  operatic  villain,  puffing 
away. 

"  So  is  Queen  Anne,"  cried  the  irritated  poet. 
His  eyes  took  a  dangerous  hunted  look.  Money 
he  must  have.  But  the  operatic  villain  was  inflex- 
ible.    No  plot,  no  supper. 

Poor  Denzil  went  out  flaming.  He  knew  not 
where  to  turn.  Temporarily  he  turned  on  his  heel 
again  and  stared  despairingly  at  the  shop-window. 
Again  he  read  the  legend 

"  Plots  for  Sale." 

He  stared  so  long  at  this  that  it  lost  its  meaning. 
When  the  sense  of  the  words  suddenly  flashed  upon 
him  again,  they  bore  a  new  significance.  He  went 
in  meekly,  and  borrowed  fourpence  of  the  operatic 
villain.  Then  he  took  the  'bus  for  Scotland  Yard. 
There  was  a  not  ill-looking  servant  girl  in  the  'bus. 
The  rhythm  of  the  vehicle  shaped  itself  into  rhymes 
in  his  brain.  He  forgot  all  about  his  situation  and 
his  object.  He  had  never  really  written  an  epic  — 
except  "Paradise  Lost"  —  but  he  composed  lyrics 
about  wine   and   women    and    often   wept   to   think 


206  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

how  miserable  he  was.  But  nobody  ever  bought 
anything  of  him,  except  articles  on  bacon-curing  or 
attacks  on  vestrymen.  He  was  a  strange,  wild 
creature,  and  the  wench  felt  quite  pretty  under 
his  ardent  gaze.  It  almost  hypnotised  her,  though, 
and  she  looked  down  at  her  new  French  kid  boots 
to  escape  it. 

At  Scotland  Yard  Denzil  asked  for  Edward  Wimp. 
Edward  Wimp  was  not  on  view.  Like  kings  and 
editors,  detectives  are  difficult  of  approach  —  unless 
you  are  a  criminal,  when  you  cannot  see  anything 
of  them  at  all.  Denzil  knew  of  Edward  Wimp, 
principally  because  of  Grodman's  contempt  for  his 
successor.  Wimp  was  a  man  of  taste  and  culture. 
Grodman's  interests  were  entirely  concentrated  on 
the  problems  of  logic  and  evidence.  Books  about 
these  formed  his  sole  reading ;  for  belles  lettres  he 
cared  not  a  straw.  Wimp,  with  his  flexible  intellect, 
had  a  great  contempt  for  Grodman  and  his  slow, 
laborious,  ponderous,  almost  Teutonic  methods. 
Worse,  he  almost  threatened  to  eclipse  the  radiant 
tradition  of  Grodman  by  some  wonderfully  ingenious 
bits  of  workmanship.  Wimp  was  at  his  greatest  in 
collecting  circumstantial  evidence ;  in  putting  two 
and  two  together  to  make  five.  He  would  collect 
together  a  number  of  dark  and  disconnected  data 
and  flash  across  them  the  electric  light  of  some 
unifying  hypothesis  in  a  way  which  would  have 
done  credit  to  a  Darwin  or  a  Faraday.     An  intellect 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  207 

which  might  have  served  to  unveil  the  secret  work- 
ings of  nature  was  subverted  to  the  protection  of  a 
capitalistic  civilisation. 

By  the  assistance  of  a  friendly  policeman,  whom 
the  poet  magnetised  into  the  belief  that  his  business 
was  a  matter  of  life  and  death,  Denzil  obtained  the 
great  detective's  private  address.  It  was  near  King's 
Cross.  By  a  miracle  Wimp  was  at  home  in  the  after- 
noon. He  was  writing  when  Denzil  was  ushered 
up  three  pairs  of  stairs  into  his  presence,  but  he  got 
up  and  flashed  the  bull's-eye  of  his  glance  upon  the 
visitor. 

"  Mr.  Denzil  Cantercot,  I  believe,"  said  Wimp. 

Denzil  started.  He  had  not  sent  up  his  name, 
merely  describing  himself  as  a  gentleman. 

"That  is  my  name,"  he  murmured. 

"  You  were  one  of  the  witnesses  at  the  inquest  on 
the  body  of  the  late  Arthur  Constant.  I  have  your 
evidence  there."  He  pointed  to  a  file.  "Why  have 
you  come  to  give  fresh  evidence  ?  " 

Again  Denzil  started,  flushing  in  addition  this  time. 
"  I  want  money,"  he  said,  almost  involuntarily. 

"  Sit  down."     Denzil  sat.     Wimp  stood. 

Wimp  was  young  and  fresh-coloured.  He  had  a 
Roman  nose,  and  was  smartly  dressed.  He  had 
beaten  Grodman  by  discovering  the  wife  Heaven 
meant  for  him.  He  had  a  bouncing  boy,  who  stole 
jam  out  of  the  pantry  without  any  one  being  the 
wiser.     Wimp  did  what  work  he  could  do  at  home 


208  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

in  a  secluded  study  at  the  top  of  the  house.  Out- 
side his  chamber  of  horrors  he  was  the  ordinary 
husband  of  commerce.  He  adored  his  wife,  who 
thought  poorly  of  his  intellect  but  highly  of  his 
heart.  In  domestic  difficulties  Wimp  was  helpless. 
He  could  not  tell  even  whether  the  servant's 
"  character "  was  forged  or  genuine.  Probably  he 
could  not  level  himself  to  such  petty  problems. 
He  was  like  the  senior  wrangler  who  has  forgotten 
how  to  do  quadratics,  and  has  to  solve  equations  of 
the  second  degree  by  the  calculus. 

"  How  much  money  do  you  want  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  do  not  make  bargains,"  Denzil  replied,  his  calm 
come  back  by  this  time.  "  I  came  here  to  tender  you 
a  suggestion.  It  struck  me  that  you  might  offer  me 
a  fiver  for  my  trouble.  Should  you  do  so,  I  shall  not 
refuse  it." 

"  You  shall  not  refuse  it  —  if  you  deserve  it." 

"  Good.  I  will  come  to  the  point  at  once.  My 
suggestion  concerns  —  Tom  Mortlake." 

Denzil  threw  out  the  name  as  if  it  were  a  torpedo. 
Wimp  did  not  move. 

"  Tom  Mortlake,"  went  on  Denzil,  looking  disap- 
pointed, "had  a  sweetheart."  He  paused  impres- 
sively. 

Wimp  said,  "  Yes  ?  " 

"  Where  is  that  sweetheart  now  ?  " 

"  Where,  indeed  ?  " 

"  You  know  about  her  disappearance  ?  " 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  209 

"  You  have  just  informed  me  of  it." 

"  Yes,  she  is  gone  —  without  a  trace.  She  went 
about  a  fortnight  before  Mr.  Constant's  murder." 

"  Murder  ?     How  do  you  know  it  was  murder  ?  " 

"Mr.  Grodman  says  so,"  said  Denzil,  startled 
again. 

"  H'm  !  Isn't  that  rather  a  proof  that  it  was  sui- 
cide ?     Well,  go  on." 

"About  a  fortnight  before  the  suicide,  Jessie 
Dymond  disappeared.'  So  they  tell  me  in  Stepney 
Green,  where  she  lodged  and  worked." 

"  What  was  she  ?  " 

"  She  was  a  dressmaker.  She  had  a  wonderful 
talent.  Quite  fashionable  ladies  got  to  know  of  it. 
One  of  her  dresses  was  presented  at  Court.  I  think 
the  lady  forgot  to  pay  for  it ;  so  Jessie's  landlady 
said." 

"  Did  she  live  alone  ?  " 

"  She  had  no  parents,  but  the  house  was  respecta- 
ble." 

"  Good-looking,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  As  a  poet's  dream." 

"  As  yours,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  poet ;  I  dream." 

"  You  dream  you  are  a  poet.  Well,  well !  She 
was  engaged  to  Mortlake  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  They  made  no  secret  of  it.  The  en- 
gagement was  an  old  one.  When  he  was  earning 
36s.  a  week  as  a  compositor,  they  were  saving  up  to 


210  THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

buy  a  home.  He  worked  at  Railton  and  Hockes' 
who  print  the  New  Pork  Herald.  I  used  to  take  my 
'  copy '  into  the  comps'  room,  and  one  day  the  Father 
of  the  Chapel  told  me  all  about  '  Mortlake  and  his 
young  woman.'  Ye  gods  !  How  times  are  changed ! 
Two  years  ago  Mortlake  had  to  struggle  with  my 
calligraphy  —  now  he  is  in  with  all  the  nobs,  and  goes 
to  the  'At  Homes'  of  the  aristocracy." 

"  Radical  M.P.'s,"  murmured  Wimp,  smiling. 

"  While  I  am  still  barred  from  the  dazzling  drawing- 
rooms,  where  beauty  and  intellect  foregather.  A  mere 
artisan  !  A  manual  labourer  !  "  Denzil's  eyes  flashed 
angrily.  He  rose  with  excitement.  "  They  say  he 
always  was  a  jabberer  in  the  composing-room,  and  he 
has  jabbered  himself  right  out  of  it  and  into  a  pretty 
good  thing.  He  didn't  have  much  to  say  about  the 
crimes  of  capital  when  he  was  set  up  to  second  the 
toast  of  '  Railton  and  Hockes  '  at  the  beanfeast." 

"Toast  and  butter,  toast  and  butter,"  said  Wimp, 
genially.  "  I  shouldn't  blame  a  man  for  serving  the 
two  together,  Mr.  Cantercot." 

Denzil  forced  a  laugh.  "  Yes  ;  but  consistency's 
my  motto.  I  like  to  see  the  royal  soul  immaculate, 
unchanging,  immovable  by  fortune.  Anyhow,  when 
better  times  came  for  Mortlake  the  engagement  still 
dragged  on.  He  did  not  visit  her  so  much.  This 
last  autumn  he  saw  very  little  of  her." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 
I  —  I  was  often  in  Stepney  Green.     My  business 


<< 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  211 

took  me  past  the  house  of  an  evening.  Sometimes 
there  was  no  light  in  her  room.  That  meant  she  was 
downstairs  gossiping  with  the  landlady." 

"  She  might  have  been  out  with  Tom  ?  " 

"No,  sir;  I  knew  Tom  was  on  the  platform  some- 
where or  other.  He  was  working  up  to  all  hours 
organising  the  eight  hours'  working  movement." 

"  A  very  good  reason  for  relaxing  his  sweetheart- 
ing." 

"  It  was.  He  never  went  to  Stepney  Green  on  a 
week  night." 

"But  you  always  did." 

"  No —  not  every  night" 

"You  didn't  go  in?" 

"  Never.  She  wouldn't  permit  my  visits.  She  was 
a  girl  of  strong  character.  She  always  reminded  me 
of  Flora  Macdonald." 

"  Another  lady  of  your  acquaintance  ?  " 

"A  lady  I  know  better  than  the  shadows  who  sur 
round  me,  who  is  more  real  to  me  than  the  women 
who  pester  me  for  the  price  of  apartments.  Jessie 
Dymond,  too,  was  of  the  race  of  heroines.  Her  eyes 
were  clear  blue,  two  wells  with  Truth  at  the  bottom 
of  each.  When  I  looked  into  those  eyes  my  own 
were  dazzled.  They  were  the  only  eyes  I  could 
never  make  dreamy."  He  waved  his  hand  as  if 
making  a  pass  with  it.  "  It  was  she  who  had  the 
influence  over  me." 

"  You  knew  her,  then  ?  " 


212  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  knew  Tom  from  the  old  New  Pork 
Herald  days,  and  when  I  first  met  him  with  Jessie 
hanging  on  his  arm  he  was  quite  proud  to  introduce  her 
to  a  poet.    When  he  got  on  he  tried  to  shake  me  off." 

"  You  should  have  repaid  him  what  you  borrowed." 

"  It  —  it  —  was  only  a  trifle,"  stammered  Denzil. 

"Yes,  but  the  world  turns  on  trifles,"  said  the  wise 
Wimp. 

"  The  world  is  itself  a  trifle,"  said  the  pensive  poet. 
"The  Beautiful  alone  is  deserving  of  our  regard." 

"  And  when  the  Beautiful  was  not  gossiping  with 
her  landlady,  did  she  gossip  with  you  as  you  passed 
the  door  ?  " 

"Alas,  no  !  She  sat  in  her  room  reading,  and  cast 
a  shadow  —  " 

"  On  your  life  ?  " 

"No;  on  the  blind." 

"  Always  one  shadow  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.     Once  or  twice,  two." 

"  Ah,  you  had  been  drinking." 

"  On  my  life,  not.  I  have  sworn  off  the  treacherous 
wine-cup." 

"  That's  right.  Beer  is  bad  for  poets.  It  makes 
their  feet  shaky.     Whose  was  the  second  shadow  ?  " 

"  A  man's." 

"  Naturally.     Mortlake's,  perhaps." 

"  Impossible.     He  was  still  striking  eight  hours." 

"  You  found  out  whose  shadow  ?  You  didn't 
leave  a  shadow  of  doubt  ? " 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  213 

"  No ;  I  waited  till  the  substance  came  out." 

"  It  was  Arthur  Constant." 

"  You  are  a  magician  !  You  —  you  terrify  me. 
Yes,  it  was  he." 

"Only  once  or  twice,  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  keep  watch  over  them." 

"  No,  no,  of  course  not.  You  only  passed  casually. 
I  understand  you  thoroughly." 

Denzil  did  not  feel  comfortable  at  the  assertion. 

"  What  did  he  go  there  for  ? "  Wimp  went  on. 

"  I  don't  know.  I'd  stake  my  soul  on  Jessie's 
honour." 

"You  might  double  your  stake  without  risk." 

"  Yes,  I  might !  I  would  !  You  see  her  with  my 
eyes." 

"  For  the  moment  they  are  the  only  ones  available. 
When  was  the  last  time  you  saw  the  two  together? " 

"About  the  middle  of  November." 

"  Mortlake  knew  nothing  of  the  meetings  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  he  did.  Mr.  Constant 
had  probably  enlisted  her  in  his  social  mission  work. 
I  knew  she  was  one  of  the  attendants  at  the  big  chil- 
dren's tea  in  the  Great  Assembly  Hall  early  in 
November.  He  treated  her  quite  like  a  lady.  She 
was  the  only  attendant  who  worked  with  her  hands." 

"  The  others  carried  the  cups  on  their  feet,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  No  ;  how  could  that  be  ?  My  meaning  is  that  all 
the  other  attendants  were  real  ladies,  and  Jessie  was 


214  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

only  an  amateur,  so  to  speak.  There  was  no  novelty 
for  her  in  handing  kids  cups  of  tea.  I  dare  say  she 
had  helped  her  landlady  often  enough  at  that  — 
there's  quite  a  bushel  of  brats  below  stairs.  It's 
almost  as  bad  as  at  friend  Crowl's.  Jessie  was  a  real 
brick.  But  perhaps  Tom  didn't  know  her  value. 
Perhaps  he  didn't  like  Constant  to  call  on  her,  and  it 
led  to  a  quarrel.  Anyhow,  she's  disappeared,  like 
the  snowfall  on  the  river.  There's  not  a  trace.  The 
landlady,  who  was  such  a  friend  of  hers  that  Jessie 
used  to  make  up  her  stuff  into  dresses  for  nothing, 
tells  me  that  she's  dreadfully  annoyed  at  not  having 
been  left  the  slightest  clue  to  her  late  tenant's  where- 
abouts." 

"  You  have  been  making  inquiries  on  your  own 
account  apparently  ? " 

"  Only  of  the  landlady.  Jessie  never  even  gave  her 
the  week's  notice,  but  paid  her  in  lieu  of  it,  and  left 
immediately.  The  landlady  told  me  I  could  have 
knocked  her  down  with  a  feather.  Unfortunately,  I 
wasn't  there  to  do  it,  or  I  should  certainly  have 
knocked  her  down  for  not  keeping  her  eyes  open 
better.  She  says  if  she  had  only  had  the  least  sus- 
picion beforehand  that  the  minx  (she  dared  to  call 
Jessie  a  minx)  was  going,  she'd  have  known  where, 
or  her  name  would  have  been  somebody  else's.  And 
yet  she  admits  that  Jessie  was  looking  ill  and  wor- 
ried.    Stupid  old  hag  !  " 

"  A  woman  of  character,"  murmured  the  detective. 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  215 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  so?"  cried  Denzil,  eagerly. 
"  Another  girl  would  have  let  out  that  she  was  going. 
But  no,  not  a  word.  She  plumped  down  the  money 
and  walked  out.  The  landlady  ran  upstairs.  None 
of  Jessie's  things  were  there.  She  must  have  quietly 
sold  them  off,  or  transferred  them  to  the  new  place. 
I  never  in  my  life  met  a  girl  who  so  thoroughly  knew 
her  own  mind  or  had  a  mind  so  worth  knowing.  She 
always  reminded  me  of  the  Maid  of  Saragossa." 

"  Indeed  !     And  when  did  she  leave  ? " 

"On  the  19th  of  November." 

"  Mortlake  of  course  knows  where  she  is  ? " 

"  I  can't  say.  Last  time  I  was  at  the  house  to 
inquire  —  it  was  at  the  end  of  November  —  he  hadn't 
been  seen  there  for  six  weeks.  He  wrote  to  her,  of 
course,  sometimes  —  the  landlady  knew  his  writing." 

Wimp  looked  Denzil  straight  in  the  eyes,  and  said, 
"You  mean,  of  course,  to  accuse  Mortlake  of  the 
murder  of  Mr.  Constant?" 

"  N-n-no,  not  at  all,"  stammered  Denzil,  "only  you 
know  what  Mr.  Grodman  wrote  to  the  Pell  Mell. 
The  more  we  know  about  Mr.  Constant's  life  the 
more  we  shall  know  about  the  manner  of  his  death. 
I  thought  my  information  would  be  valuable  to  you, 
and  I  brought  it." 

"And  why  didn't  you  take  it  to  Mr.  Grodman?" 

"  Because  I  thought  it  wouldn't  be  valuable  to 
me. 

"You  wrote  Criminals  I  have  Caught?' 


210  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

"How  —  how  do  you  know  that?"  Wimp  was 
startling  him  to-day  with  a  vengeance. 

"  Your  style,  my  dear  Mr.  Cantercot.  The  unique, 
noble  style." 

"  Yes,  I  was  afraid  it  would  betray  me,"  said  Denzil. 
"  And  since  you  know,  I  may  tell  you  that  Grodman's 
a  mean  curmudgeon.  What  does  he  want  with  all 
that  money  and  those  houses  —  a  man  with  no  sense 
of  the  Beautiful  ?  He'd  have  taken  my  information, 
and  given  me  more  kicks  than  ha'pence  for  it,  so  to 
speak." 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  shrewd  man  after  all.  I  don't  see 
anything  valuable  in  your  evidence  against  Mort- 
lake." 

"  No ! "  said  Denzil  in  a  disappointed  tone,  and 
fearing  he  was  going  to  be  robbed.  "  Not  when 
Mortlake  was  already  jealous  of  Mr.  Constant,  who 
was  a  sort  of  rival  organiser,  unpaid !  A  kind  of 
blackleg  doing  the  work  cheaper — nay,  for  nothing." 

"  Did  Mortlake  tell  you  he  was  jealous  ? "  said 
Wimp,  a  shade  of  sarcastic  contempt  piercing  through 
his  tones. 

"Oh,  yes!  He  said  to  me,  'That  man  will  work 
mischief.  I  don't  like  your  kid-glove  philanthropists 
meddling  in  matters  they  don't  understand.'  " 

"  Those  were  his  very  words  ?  " 

"  His  ipsissima  verba." 

"  Very  well.  I  have  your  address  in  my  files. 
Here  is  a  sovereign  for  you." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  217 

"  Only  one  sovereign  !    It's  not  the  least  use  to  me." 

"Very  well.  It's  of  great  use  to  me.  I  have  a 
wife  to  keep." 

"I  haven't,"  said  Denzil,  with  a  sickly  smile,  "so 
perhaps  I  can  manage  on  it  after  all."  He  took  his 
hat  and  the  sovereign. 

Outside  the  door  he  met  a  rather  pretty  servant 
just  bringing  in  some  tea  to  her  master.  He  nearly 
upset  her  tray  at  sight  of  her.  She  seemed  more 
amused  at  the  rencontre  than  he. 

"  Good  afternoon,  dear,"  she  said  coquettishly. 
"You  might  let  me  have  that  sovereign.  I  do  so 
want  a  new  Sunday  bonnet." 

Denzil  gave  her  the  sovereign,  and  slammed  the 
hall-door  viciously  when  he  got  to  the  bottom  of  the 
stairs.  He  seemed  to  be  walking  arm-in-arm  with 
the  long  arm  of  coincidence.  Wimp  did  not  hear 
the  duologue.  He  was  already  busy  on  his  evening's 
report  to  headquarters.  The  next  day  Denzil  had  a 
body-guard  wherever  he  went.  It  might  have  grati- 
fied his  vanity  had  he  known  it.  But  to-night  he 
was  yet  unattended,  so  no  one  noted  that  he  went  to 
46  Glover  Street,  after  the  early  Crowl  supper.  He 
could  not  help  going.  He  wanted  to  get  another 
sovereign.  He  also  itched  to  taunt  Grodman.  Not 
succeeding  in  the  former  object,  he  felt  the  road  open 
for  the  second. 

"  Do  you  still  hope  to  discover  the  Bow  murderer  ? " 
he  asked  the  old  bloodhound. 


218  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

"  I  can  lay  my  hand  on  him  now,"  Grodman 
announced  curtly. 

Denzil  hitched  his  chair  back  involuntarily.  He 
found  conversation  with  detectives  as  lively  as  play- 
ing at  skittles  with  bombshells.  They  got  on  his 
nerves  terribly,  these  undemonstrative  gentlemen  with 
no  sense  of  the  Beautiful. 

"  But  why  don't  you  give  him  up  to  justice?"  he 
murmured. 

"  Ah  —  it  has  to  be  proved  yet.  But  it  is  only  a 
matter  of  time." 

"Oh!  "  said  Denzil,  "and  shall  I  write  the  story 
for  you  ? " 

"  No.     You  will  not  live  long  enough." 

Denzil  turned  white.  "  Nonsense !  I  am  years 
younger  than  you,"  he  gasped. 

"Yes,"  said  Grodman,  "but  you  drink  so  much." 

VII 

When  Wimp  invited  Grodman  to  eat  his  Christmas 
plum-pudding  at  King's  Cross,  Grodman  was  only  a 
little  surprised.  The  two  men  were  always  over- 
whelmingly cordial  when  they  met,  in  order  to  dis- 
guise their  mutual  detestation.  When  people  really 
like  each  other,  they  make  no  concealment  of  their 
mutual  contempt.  In  his  letter  to  Grodman,  Wimp 
said  that  he  thought  it  might  be  nicer  for  him  to  keep 
Christmas  in  company  than  in  solitary  state.  There 
seems  to  be  a  general  prejudice  in  favour  of  Christ- 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  219 

mas  numbers,  and  Grodman  yielded  to  it.  Besides, 
he  thought  that  a  peep  at  the  Wimp  domestic 
interior  would  be  as  good ,  as  a  pantomime.  He 
quite  enjoyed  the  fun  that  was  coming,  for  he  knew 
that  Wimp  had  not  invited  him  out  of  mere  "  peace 
and  goodwill." 

There  was  only  one  other  guest  at  the  festive  board. 
This  was  Wimp's  wife's  mother's  mother,  a  lady  of 
sweet  seventy.  Only  a  minority  of  mankind  can 
obtain  a  grandmother-in-law  by  marrying,  but  Wimp 
was  not  unduly  conceited.  The  old  lady  suffered 
from  delusions.  One  of  them  was  that  she  was  a 
centenarian.  She  dressed  for  the  part.  It  is  extraor- 
dinary what  pains  ladies  will  take  to  conceal  their 
age.  Another  of  Wimp's  grandmother-in-law's  delu- 
sions was  that  Wimp  had  married  to  get  her  into  the 
family.  Not  to  frustrate  his  design,  she  always  gave 
him  her  company  on  high-days  and  holidays.  Wil- 
fred Wimp- — the  little  boy  who  stole  the  jam  —  was 
in  great  form  at  the  Christmas  dinner.  The  only 
drawback  to  his  enjoyment  was  that  its  sweets  needed 
no  stealing.  His  mother  presided  over  the  platters, 
and  thought  how  much  cleverer  Grodman  was  than 
her  husband.  When  the  pretty  servant  who  waited 
on  them  was  momentarily  out  of  the  room,  Grodman 
had  remarked  that  she  seemed  very  inquisitive.  This 
coincided  with  Mrs.  Wimp's  own  convictions,  though 
Mr.  Wimp  could  never  be  brought  to  see  anything 
unsatisfactory  or  suspicious  about  the  girl,  not  even 


220  THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

though  there  were  faults  in  spelling  in  the  "  character" 
with  which  her  last  mistress  had  supplied  her. 

It  was  true  that  the  puss  had  pricked  up  her 
ears  when  Denzil  Cantercot's  name  was  mentioned. 
Grodman  saw  it,  and  watched  her,  and  fooled  Wimp 
to  the  top  of  his  bent.  It  was,  of  course,  Wimp  who 
introduced  the  poet's  name,  and  he  did  it  so  casually 
that  Grodman  perceived  at  once  that  he  wished  to 
pump  him.  The  idea  that  the  rival  bloodhound  should 
come  to  him  for  confirmation  of  suspicions  against 
his  own  pet  jackal  was  too  funny.  It  was  almost  as 
funny  to  Grodman  that  evidence  of  some  sort  should 
be  obviously  lying  to  hand  in  the  bosom  of  Wimp's 
hand-maiden ;  so  obviously  that  Wimp  could  not  see 
it.  Grodman  enjoyed  his  Christmas  dinner,  secure 
that  he  had  not  found  a  successor  after  all.  Wimp, 
for  his  part,  contemptuously  wondered  at  the  way 
Grodman's  thought  hovered  about  Denzil  without 
grazing  the  truth.  A  man  constantly  about  him, 
too! 

"Denzil  is  a  man  of  genius,"  said  Grodman.  "And 
as  such  comes  under  the  heading  of  Suspicious  Char- 
acters. He  has  written  an  Epic  Poem  and  read  it 
to  me.  It  is  morbid  from  start  to  finish.  There  is 
'  death '  in  the  third  line.  I  dare  say  you  know  he 
polished  up  my  book  ?  "  Grodman's  artlessness  was 
perfect. 

"  No.  You  surprise  me,"  Wimp  replied.  "I'm 
sure  he  couldn't  have  done  much  to  it.     Look  at  your 


THE   BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  221 

letter  in  the  Pell  Mcll.     Who  wants  more  polish  and 
refinement  than  that  showed  ?  " 

"Ah,  I  didn't  know  you  did  me  the  honour  of  read- 
ing that." 

"Oh,  yes;  we  both  read  it,"  put  in  Mrs.  Wimp. 
"  I  told  Mr.  Wimp  it  was  very  clever  and  cogent. 
After  that  quotation  from  the  letter  to  the  poor  fel- 
low's fiancee  there  could  be  no  more  doubt  but  that  it 
was  murder.  Mr.  Wimp  was  convinced  by  it  too, 
weren't  you,  Edward  ?  " 

Edward  coughed  uneasily.  It  was  a  true  state- 
ment, and  therefore  an  indiscreet.  Grodman  would 
plume  himself  terribly.  At  this  moment  Wimp  felt 
that  Grodman  had  been  right  in  remaining  a  bachelor. 
Grodman  perceived  the  humour  of  the  situation,  and 
wore  a  curious,  sub-mocking  smile. 

"  On  the  day  I  was  born,"  said  Wimp's  grand- 
mother-in-law,  "  over  a  hundred  years  ago,  there  was 
a  babe  murdered."  —  Wimp  found  himself  wishing 
it  had  been  she.  He  was  anxious  to  get  back  to 
Cantercot.  "  Don't  let  us  talk  shop  on  Christmas 
Day,"  he  said,  smiling  at  Grodman.  "  Besides,  mur- 
der isn't  a  very  appropriate  subject." 

"  No,  it  ain't,"  said  Grodman.  "  How  did  we  get 
on  to  it  ?  Oh,  yes  —  Denzil  Cantercot.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
That's  curious,  for  since  Denzil  revised  Criminals  I 
have  Caught,  his  mind's  running  on  nothing  but  mur- 
ders.    A  poet's  brain  is  easily  turned." 

Wimp's  eye  glittered  with  excitement  and  contempt 


222  THE   BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

for  Grodman's  blindness.  In  Grodman's  eye  there 
danced  an  amused  scorn  of  Wimp ;  to  the  outsider 
his  amusement  appeared  at  the  expense  of  the 
poet. 

Having  wrought  his  rival  up  to  the  highest  pitch, 
Grodman  slyly  and  suddenly  unstrung  him. 

"  How  lucky  for  Denzil !  "  he  said,  still  in  the  same 
naive,  facetious  Christmasy  tone,  "  that  he  can  prove 
an  alibi  in  this  Constant  affair." 

"  An  alibi !  "  gasped  Wimp.     "  Really  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  He  was  with  his  wife,  you  know. 
She's  my  woman  of  all  work,  Jane.  She  happened 
to  mention  his  being  with  her." 

Jane  had  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  After  the 
colloquy  he  had  overheard,  Grodman  had  set  himself 
to  find  out  the  relation  between  his  two  employees. 
By  casually  referring  to  Denzil  as  "your  husband," 
he  so  startled  the  poor  woman  that  she  did  not 
attempt  to  deny  the  bond.  Only  once  did  he  use 
the  two  words,  but  he  was  satisfied.  As  to  the  alibi, 
he  had  not  yet  troubled  her ;  but  to  take  its  existence 
for  granted  would  upset  and  discomfort  Wimp.  For 
the  moment  that  was  triumph  enough  for  Wimp's 
guest. 

"  Par,"  said  Wilfred  Wimp,  "what's  a  alleybi?  A 
marble  ? " 

"  No,  my  lad,"  said  Grodman,  "  it  means  being 
somewhere  else  when  you're  supposed  to  be  some- 
where." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  223 

"  Ah,  playing  truant,"  said  Wilfred,  self-con- 
sciously ;  his  schoolmaster  had  often  proved  an 
alibi  against  him.     "  Then   Denzil  will  be  hanged." 

Was  it  a  prophecy  ?  Wimp  accepted  it  as  such  ;  as 
an  oracle  from  the  gods  bidding  him  mistrust  Grod- 
man.  Out  of  the  mouths  of  little  children  issueth 
wisdom  ;  sometimes  even  when  they  are  not  saying 
their  lessons. 

"  When  I  was  in  my  cradle,  a  century  ago,"  said 
Wimp's  grandmother-in-law,  "  men  were  hanged  for 
stealing  horses." 

They  silenced  her  with  snapdragon  performances. 

Wimp  was  busy  thinking  how  to  get  at  Grodman's 
factotum. 

Grodman  was  busy  thinking  how  to  get  at  Wimp's 
domestic. 

Neither  received  any  of  the  usual  messages  from 

the  Christmas  Bells. 

****** 

The  next  day  was  sloppy  and  uncertain.  A  thin 
rain  drizzled  languidly.  One  can  stand  that  sort  of 
thing  on  a  summer  Bank  Holiday ;  one  expects  it. 
But  to  have  a  bad  December  Bank  Holiday  is  too 
much  of  a  bad  thing.  Some  steps  should  surely  be 
taken  to  confuse  the  weather  clerk's  chronology. 
Once  let  him  know  that  Bank  Holiday  is  coming, 
and  he  writes  to  the  company  for  more  water.  To- 
day his  stock  seemed  low,  and  he  was  dribbling  it 
out ;  at  times  the  wintry  sun  would  shine  in  a  feeble, 


224  THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

diluted  way,  and  though  the  holiday-makers  would 
have  preferred  to  take  their  sunshine  neat,  they 
swarmed  forth  in  their  myriads  whenever  there  was 
a  ray  of  hope.  But  it  was  only  dodging  the  rain- 
drops; up  went  the  umbrellas  again,  and  the  streets 
became  meadows  of  ambulating  mushrooms. 

Denzil  Cantercot  sat  in  his  fur  overcoat  at  the 
open  window,  looking  at  the  landscape  in  water- 
colours.  He  smoked  an  after-dinner  cigarette,  and 
spoke  of  the  Beautiful.  Crowl  was  with  him.  They 
were  in  the  first  floor  front,  Crowl's  bedroom,  which, 
from  its  view  of  the  Mile  End  Road,  was  livelier  than 
the  parlour  with  its  outlook  on  the  backyard.  Mrs. 
Crowl  was  an  anti-tobacconist  as  regards  the  best 
bedroom  ;  but  Peter  did  not  like  to  put  the  poet  or 
his  cigarette  out.  He  felt  there  was  something  in 
common  between  smoke  and  poetry,  over  and  above 
their  being  both  Fads.  Besides,  Mrs.  Crowl  was 
sulking  in  the  kitchen.  She  had  been  arranging  for 
an  excursion  with  Peter  and  the  children  to  Victoria 
Park.  (She  had  dreamed  of  the  Crystal  Palace,  but 
Santa  Claus  had  put  no  gifts  in  the  cobbler's  shoes.) 
Now  she  could  not  risk  spoiling  the  feather  in  her 
bonnet.  The  nine  brats  expressed  their  disappoint- 
ment by  slapping  one  another  on  the  staircases. 
Peter  felt  that  Mrs.  Crowl  connected  him  in  some 
way  with  the  rainfall,  and  was  unhappy.  Was  it  not 
enough  that  he  had  been  deprived  of  the  pleasure  of 
pointing  out  to  a  superstitious  majority  the  mutual 


THE   BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  225 

contradictions  of  Leviticus  and  the  Song  of  Solo- 
mon ?  It  was  not  often  that  Crowl  could  count  on 
such  an  audience. 

"And  you  still  call  Nature  Beautiful?"  he  said  to 
Denzil,  pointing  to  the  ragged  sky  and  the  dripping 
eaves.     "  Ugly  old  scarecrow  !  " 

"  Ugly  she  seems  to-day,"  admitted  Denzil.  "  But 
what  is  Ugliness  but  a  higher  form  of  Beauty  ?  You 
have  to  look  deeper  into  it  to  see  it ;  such  vision  is 
the  priceless  gift  of  the  few.  To  me  this  wan  deso- 
lation of  sighing  rain  is  lovely  as  the  sea-washed  ruins 
of  cities." 

"Ah,  but  you  wouldn't  like  to  go  out  into  it,"  said 
Peter  Crowl.  As  he  spoke  the  drizzle  suddenly 
thickened  into  a  torrent. 

"We  do  not  always  kiss  the  woman  we  love." 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  Denzil.  I'm  only  a  plain 
man,  and  I  want  to  know  if  Nature  isn't  a  Fad. 
Hallo,  there  goes  Mortlake !  Lord,  a  minute  of  this 
will  soak  him  to  the  skin." 

The  labour  leader  was  walking  along  with  bowed 
head.  He  did  not  seem  to  mind  the  shower.  It  was 
some  seconds  before  he  even  heard  Crowl's  invitation 
to  him  to  take  shelter.  When  he  did  hear  it  he  shook 
his  head. 

"  I  know  I  can't  offer  you  a  drawing-room  with 
duchesses  stuck  about  it,"  said  Peter,  vexed. 

Tom  turned  the  handle  of  the  shop  door  and  went 
in.     There   was    nothing   in   the   world  which    now 


226  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

galled  him  more  than  the  suspicion  that  he  was 
stuck-up  and  wished  to  cut  old  friends.  He  picked 
his  way  through  the  nine  brats  who  clung  affection- 
ately to  his  wet  knees,  dispersing  them  finally  by  a 
jet  of  coppers  to  scramble  for.  Peter  met  him  on  the 
stairs  and  shook  his  hand  lovingly  and  admiringly, 
and  took  him  into  Mrs.  Crowl's  bedroom. 

"  Don't  mind  what  I  say,  Tom.  I'm  only  a  plain 
man,  and  my  tongue  will  say  what  comes  uppermost ! 
But  it  ain't  from  the  soul,  Tom,  it  ain't  from  the  soul," 
said  Peter,  punning  feebly,  and  letting  a  mirthless 
smile  play  over  his  sallow  features.  "  You  know  Mr. 
Cantercot,  I  suppose  ?     The  Poet." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  how  do  you  do,  Tom  ?  "  cried  the  Poet. 
"  Seen  the  New  Pork  Herald  lately  ?  Not  bad,  those 
old  times,  eh  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Tom,  "  I  wish  I  was  back  in  them." 

"  Nonsense,  nonsense,"  said  Peter,  in  much  con- 
cern. "  Look  at  the  good  you  are  doing  to  the 
working  man.  Look  how  you  are  sweeping  away 
the  Fads.  Ah,  it's  a  grand  thing  to  be  gifted,  Tom. 
The  idea  of  your  chuckin'  yourself  away  on  a  com- 
posin'-room !  Manual  labour  is  all  very  well  for 
plain  men  like  me,  with  no  gift  but  just  enough 
brains  to  see  into  the  realities  of  things  —  to  under- 
stand that  we've  got  no  soul  and  no  immortality,  and 
all  that  —  and  too  selfish  to  look  after  anybody's  com- 
fort but  my  own  and  mother's  and  the  kids'.  But 
men  like  you  and  Cantercot  —  it  ain't  right  that  you 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  227 

should  be  peggin'  away  at  low  material  things.  Not 
that  I  think  Cantercot's  gospel  any  value  to  the 
masses.  The  Beautiful  is  all  very  well  for  folks 
who've  got  nothing  else  to  think  of,  but  give  me 
the  True.  You're  the  man  for  my  money,  Mortlake. 
No  reference  to  the  funds,  Tom,  to  which  I  con- 
tribute little  enough,  Heaven  knows;  though  how  a 
place  can  know  anything,  Heaven  alone  knows.  You 
give  us  the  Useful,  Tom  ;  that's  what  the  world  wants 
more  than  the  Beautiful." 

"  Socrates  said  that  the  Useful  is  the  Beautiful," 
said  Denzil. 

"That  may  be,"  said  Peter,  "but  the  Beautiful 
ain't  the  Useful." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Denzil.  "  What  about  Jessie  — 
I  mean  Miss  Dymond  ?  There's  a  combination  for 
you.  She  always  reminds  me  of  Grace  Darling. 
How  is  she,  Tom  ?  " 

"  She's  dead  !  "  snapped  Tom. 

"  What  ? "  Denzil  turned  as  white  as  a  Christmas 
ghost. 

"  It  was  in  the  papers,"  said  Tom  ;  "  all  about  her 
and  the  lifeboat." 

"  Oh,  you  mean  Grace  Darling,"  said  Denzil, 
visibly  relieved.     "  I   meant  Miss   Dymond." 

"You  needn't  be  so  interested  in  her,"  said  Tom 
surlily.  "  She  don't  appreciate  it.  Ah,  the  shower  is 
over.     I  must  be  going." 

"  No,   stay   a  little  longer,   Tom,"   pleaded   Peter. 


228  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

"  I  see  a  lot  about  you  in  the  papers,  but  very  little 
of  your  dear  old  phiz  now.  I  can't  spare  the  time  to 
go  and  hear  you.  But  I  really  must  give  myself  a 
treat.     When's  your  next  show  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  always  giving  shows,"  said  Tom,  smil- 
ing a  little.  "  But  my  next  big  performance  is  on  the 
twenty-first  of  January,  when  that  picture  of  poor 
Mr.  Constant  is  to  be  unveiled  at  the  Bow  Break 
o'  Day  Club.  They  have  written  to  Gladstone  and 
other  big  pots  to  come  down.  I  do  hope  the  old 
man  accepts.  A  non-political  gathering  like  this  is 
the  only  occasion  we  could  both  speak  at,  and  I  have 
never  been  on  the  same  platform  with  Gladstone." 

He  forgot  his  depression  and  ill-temper  in  the 
prospect,  and  spoke  with   more  animation. 

"  No,  I  should  hope  not,  Tom,"  said  Peter.  "What 
with  his  Fads  about  the  Bible  being  a  Rock,  and 
Monarchy  being  the  right  thing,  he  is  a  most  dan- 
gerous man  to  lead  the  Radicals.  He  never  lays  his 
axe  to  the  root  of  anything  —  except  oak  trees." 

"Mr.  Cantycot !  "  It  was  Mrs.  Crowl's  voice  that 
broke  in  upon  the  tirade.  "  There's  a  gentleman  to 
see  you."  The  astonishment  Mrs.  Crowl  put  into 
the  "  gentleman  "  was  delightful.  It  was  almost  as 
good  as  a  week's  rent  to  her  to  give  vent  to  her  feel- 
ings. The  controversial  couple  had  moved  away 
from  the  window  when  Tom  entered,  and  had  not 
noticed  the  immediate  advent  of  another  visitor  who 
had   spent  his  time  profitably   in   listening    to   Mrs. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  229 

Crowl  before  asking  to  see  the  presumable  object 
of  his  visit. 

"Ask  him  up  if  it's  a  friend  of  yours,  Cantercot," 
said  Peter.  It  was  Wimp.  Denzil  was  rather  dubi- 
ous as  to  the  friendship,  but  he  preferred  to  take 
Wimp  diluted.  "  Mortlake's  upstairs,"  he  said ; 
"will  you  come  up  and  see  him?" 

Wimp  had  intended  a  duologue,  but  he  made  no 
objection,  so  he*  too,  stumbled  through  the  nine  brats 
to  Mrs.  Crowl's  bedroom.  It  was  a  queer  quartette. 
Wimp  had  hardly  expected  to  find  anybody  at  the 
house  on  Boxing  Day,  but  he  did  not  care  to  waste  a 
day.  Was  not  Grodman,  too,  on  the  track  ?  How 
lucky  it  was  that  Denzil  had  made  the  first  over- 
tures, so  that  he  could  approach  him  without  exciting 
suspicion. 

Mortlake  scowled  when  he  saw  the  detective.  He 
objected  to  the  police  —  on  principle.  But  Crowl  had 
no  idea  who  the  visitor  was,  even  when  told  his 
name.  He  was  rather  pleased  to  meet  one  of  Den- 
zil's  higH-class  friends,  and  welcomed  him  warmly. 
Probably  he  was  some  famous  editor,  which  would 
account  for  his  name  stirring  vague  recollections. 
He  summoned  the  eldest  brat  and  sent  him  for  beer 
(people  would  have  their  Fads),  and  not  without 
trepidation  called  down  to  "  Mother "  for  glasses. 
"  Mother  "  observed  at  night  (in  the  same  apartment) 
that  the  beer  money  might  have  paid  the  week's 
school  fees  for  half  the  family. 


230  THE   BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

"  We  were  just  talking  of  poor  Mr.  Constant's  por- 
trait, Mr.  Wimp,"  said  the  unconscious  Crowl ;  "  they're 
going  to  unveil  it,  Mortlake  tells  me,  on  the  twenty- 
first  of  next  month  at  the  Bow  Break  o'  Day  Club." 

"  Ah,"  said  Wimp,  elate  at  being  spared  the  trouble 
of  manoeuvring  the  conversation  ;  "  mysterious  affair 
that,  Mr.  Crowl." 

"  No  ;  it's  the  right  thing,"  said  Peter.  "  There 
ought  to  be  some  memorial  of  the  man  in  the  district 
where  he  worked  and  where  he  died,  poor  chap." 
The  cobbler  brushed  away  a  tear. 

"Yes,  it's  only  right,"  echoed  Mortlake,  a  whit 
eagerly.  "  He  was  a  noble  fellow,  a  true  philanthro- 
pist—  the  only  thoroughly  unselfish  worker  I've  ever 
met." 

"  He  was  that,"  said  Peter ;  "  and  it's  a  rare  pat- 
tern is  unselfishness.  Poor  fellow,  poor  fellow.  He 
preached  the  Useful,  too.  I've  never  met  his  like. 
Ah,  I  wish  there  was  a  heaven  for  him  to  go  to  !  " 
He  blew  his  nose  violently  with  a  red  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

"  Well,  he's  there,  if  there  is,"  said  Tom. 

"I  hope  he  is,"  added  Wimp,  fervently;  "but  I 
shouldn't  like  to  go  there  the  way  he  did." 

"  You  were  the  last  person  to  see  him,  Tom,  weren't 
you  ?  "  said  Denzil. 

"  Oh,  no,"  answered  Tom,  quickly.  "  You  remem- 
ber he  went  out  after  me ;  at  least,  so  Mrs.  Drabdump 
said  at  the  inquest." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  231 

"  That  last  conversation  he  had  with  you,  Tom," 
said  Denzil.  "  He  didn't  say  anything  to  you  that 
would  lead  you  to  suppose  —  " 

"No,  of  course  not!"  interrupted  Mortlake, 
impatiently. 

"  Do  you  really  think  he  was  murdered,  Tom  ? " 
said  Denzil. 

"  Mr.  Wimp's  opinion  on  that  point  is  more  valua- 
ble than  mine,"  replied  Tom,  testily.  "  It  .may  have 
been  suicide.  Men  often  get  sick  of  life  —  especially 
if  they  are  bored,"  he  added  meaningly. 

"  Ah,  but  you  were  the  last  person  known  to  be 
with  him,"  said  Denzil. 

Crowl  laughed.     "  Had  you  there,  Tom." 

But  they  did  not  have  Tom  there  much  longer,  for 
he  departed,  looking  even  worse-tempered  than  when 
he  came.  Wimp  went  soon  after,  and  Crowl  and 
Denzil  were  left  to  their  interminable  argumentation 
concerning  the  Useful  and  the  Beautiful. 

Wimp  went  West.  He  had  several  strings  (or 
cords)  to  his  bow,  and  he  ultimately  found  himself  at 
Kensal  Green  Cemetery.  Being  there,  he  went 
down  the  avenues  of  the  dead  to  a  grave  to  note 
down  the  exact  date  of  a  death.  It  was  a  day  on 
which  the  dead  seemed  enviable.  The  dull,  sodden 
sky,  the  dripping,  leafless  trees,  the  wet,  spongy  soil, 
the  reeking  grass  —  everything  combined  to  make 
one  long  to  be  in  a  warm,  comfortable  grave  away 
from  the  leaden  ennuis  of  life.     Suddenly  the  detec- 


232  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

tive's  keen  eye  caught  sight  of  a  figure  that  made  his 
heart  throb  with  sudden  excitement.  It  was  that  of 
a  woman  in  a  grey  shawl  and  a  brown  bonnet,  stand- 
ing before  a  railed-in  grave.  She  had  no  umbrella. 
The  rain  plashed  mournfully  upon  her,  but  left  no 
trace  on  her  soaking  garments.  Wimp  crept  up  be- 
hind her,  but  she  paid  no  heed  to  him.  Her  eyes 
were  lowered  to  the  grave,  which  seemed  to  be  draw- 
ing them  towards  it  by  some  strange  morbid  fascina- 
tion. His  eyes  followed  hers.  The  simple  headstone 
bore  the  name,  "  Arthur  Constant." 

Wimp  tapped  her  suddenly  on  the  shoulder. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Drabdump  ? " 

Mrs.  Drabdump  went  deadly  white.  She  turned 
round,  staring  at  Wimp  without  any  recognition. 

"  You  remember  me,  surely,"  he  said;  "I've  been 
down  once  or  twice  to  your  place  about  that  poor 
gentleman's  papers."     His  eye  indicated  the  grave. 

"  Lor !  I  remember  you  now,"  said  Mrs.  Drab- 
dump. 

"  Won't  you  come  under  my  umbrella  ?  You  must 
be  drenched  to  the  skin." 

"  It  don't  matter,  sir.  I  can't  take  no  hurt.  I've 
had  the  rheumatics  this  twenty  year." 

Mrs.  Drabdump  shrank  from  accepting  Wimp's 
attentions,  not  so  much  perhaps  because  he  was  a 
man  as  because  he  was  a  gentleman.  Mrs.  Drab- 
dump liked  to  see  the  fine  folks  keep  their  place, 
and  not  contaminate  their  skirts  by  contact  with  the 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  233 

lower  castes.  "  It's  set  wet,  it'll  rain  right  into  the 
new  year,"  she  announced.  "  And  they  say  a  bad 
beginnin'  makes  a  worse  endin'."  Mrs.  Drabdump 
was  one  of  those  persons  who  give  you  the  idea  that 
they  just  missed  being  born  barometers. 

"  But  what  are  you  doing  in  this  miserable  spot,  so 
far  from  home  ?  "  queried  the  detective. 

"  It's  Bank  Holiday,"  Mrs.  Drabdump  reminded 
him  in  tones  of  acute  surprise.  "  I  always  make  a 
hexcursion  on  Bank  Holiday." 

VIII 

The  New  Year  drew  Mrs.  Drabdump  a  new  lodger. 
He  was  an  old  gentleman  with  a  long  grey  beard. 
He  rented  the  rooms  of  the  late  Mr.  Constant,  and 
lived  a  very  retired  life.  Haunted  rooms  —  or  rooms 
that  ought  to  be  haunted  if  the  ghosts  of  those  mur- 
dered in  them  had  any  self-respect — are  supposed 
to  fetch  a  lower  rent  in  the  market.  The  whole  Irish 
problem  might  be  solved  if  the  spirits  of  "  Mr.  Bal- 
four's victims  "  would  only  depreciate  the  value  of 
property  to  a  point  consistent  with  the  support  of  an 
agricultural  population.  But  Mrs.  Drabdump's  new 
lodger  paid  so  much  for  his  rooms  that  he  laid  him- 
self open  to  a  suspicion  of  a  special  interest  in  ghosts. 
Perhaps  he  was  a  member  of  the  Psychical  Society. 
The  neighbourhood  imagined  him  another  mad  phi- 
lanthropist, but  as  he  did  not  appear  to  be  doing  any 
good  to  anybody  it  relented  and  conceded  his  sanity.. 


234  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

Mortlake,  who  occasionally  stumbled  across  him  in 
the  passage,  did  not  trouble  himself  to  think  about 
him  at  all.  He  was  too  full  of  other  troubles  and 
cares.  Though  he  worked  harder  than  ever,  the 
spirit  seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  him.  Sometimes 
he  forgot  himself  in  a  fine  rapture  of  eloquence  — 
lashing  himself  up  into  a  divine  resentment  of  injus- 
tice or  a  passion  of  sympathy  with  the  sufferings  of 
his  brethren  —  but  mostly  he  plodded  on  in  dull, 
mechanical  fashion.  He  still  made  brief  provincial 
tours,  starring  a  day  here  and  a  day  there,  and  every- 
where his  admirers  remarked  how  jaded  and  over- 
worked" he  looked.  There  was  talk  of  starting  a 
subscription  to  give  him  a  holiday  on  the  Continent 
—  a  luxury  obviously  unobtainable  on  the  few  pounds 
allowed  him  per  week.  The  new  lodger  would  doubt- 
less  have  been  pleased  to  subscribe,  for  he  seemed 
quite  to  like  occupying  Mortlake's  chamber  the 
nights  he  was  absent,  though  he  was  thoughtful 
enough  not  to  disturb  the  hard-worked  landlady  in 
the  adjoining  room  by  unseemly  noise.  Wimp  was 
always  a  quiet  man. 

Meantime  the  twenty-first  of  the  month  approached, 
and  the  East-end  was  in  excitement.  Mr.  Gladstone 
had  consented  to  be  present  at  the  ceremony  of  unveil- 
ing the  portrait  of  Arthur  Constant,  presented  by  an 
unknown  donor  to  the  Bow  Break  o'  Day  Club,  and  it 
was  to  be  a  great  function.  The  whole  affair  was 
outside  the  lines  of  party  politics,  so  that  even  Con- 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  235 

servatives  and  Socialists  considered  themselves  justi- 
fied in  pestering  the  committee  for  tickets.  To  say 
nothing  of  ladies !  As  the  committee  desired  to  be 
present  themselves,  nine-tenths  of  the  applications  for 
admission  had  to  be  refused,  as  is  usual  on  these  occa- 
sions. The  committee  agreed  among  themselves  to 
exclude  the  fair  sex  altogether  as  the  only  way  of  dis- 
posing of  their  womankind,  who  were  making  speeches 
as  long  as  Mr.  Gladstone's.  Each  committeeman  told 
his  sisters,  female  cousins,  and  aunts,  that  the  other 
committeemen  had  insisted  on  divesting  the  function 
of  all  grace  ;  and  what  could  a  man  do  when  he  was 
in  a  minority  of  one  ? 

Crowl,  who  was  not  a  member  of  the  Break  o'  Day 
Club,  was  particularly  anxious  to  hear  the  great  ora- 
tor whom  he  despised  ;  fortunately  Mortlake  remem- 
bered the  cobbler's  anxiety  to  hear  himself,  and  on 
the  eve  of  the  ceremony  sent  him  a  ticket.  Crowl 
was  in  the  first  flush  of  possession  when  Denzil  Can- 
tercot  returned,  after  a  sudden  and  unannounced 
absence  of  three  days.  His  clothes  were  muddy  and 
tattered,  his  cocked  hat  was  deformed,  his  cavalier 
beard  was  matted,  and  his  eyes  were  bloodshot.  The 
cobbler  nearly  dropped  the  ticket  at  the  sight  of  him. 
"  Hallo,  Cantercot !  "  he  gasped.  "  Why,  where  have 
you  been  all  these  days  ?  " 

"  Terribly  busy  !  "  said  Denzil.  "  Here,  give  me  a 
glass  of  water.     I'm  dry  as  the  Sahara." 

Crowl  ran  inside  and  got  the  water,  trying    hard 


236  THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

not  to  inform  Mrs.  Crowl  of  their  lodger's  return. 
"Mother"  had  expressed  herself  freely  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  poet  during  his  absence,  and  not  in  terms 
which  would  have  commended  themselves  to  the 
poet's  fastidious  literary  sense.  Indeed,  she  did  not 
hesitate  to  call  him  a  sponger  and  a  low  swindler, 
who  had  run  away  to  avoid  paying  the  piper.  Her 
fool  of  a  husband  might  be  quite  sure  he  would  never 
set  eyes  on  the  scoundrel  again.  However,  Mrs. 
Crowl  was  wrong.  Here  was  Denzil  back  again. 
And  yet  Mr.  Crowl  felt  no  sense  of  victory.  He  had 
no  desire  to  crow  over  his  partner  and  to  utter  that 
"  See !  didn't  I  tell  you  so  ?  "  which  is  a  greater  con- 
solation than  religion  in  most  of  the  misfortunes  of 
life.  Unfortunately,  to  get  the  water,  Crowl  had  to 
go  to  the  kitchen ;  and  as  he  was  usually  such  a 
temperate  man,  this  desire  for  drink  in  the  middle 
of  the  day  attracted  the  attention  of  the  lady  in 
possession.  Crowl  had  to  explain  the  situation. 
Mrs.  Crowl  ran  into  the  shop  to  improve  it.  Mr. 
Crowl  followed  in  dismay,  leaving  a  trail  of  spilt 
water  in  his  wake. 

"  You  good-for-nothing,  disreputable  scare-crow, 
where    have  —  " 

"  Hush,  mother.  Let  him  drink.  Mr.  Cantercot 
is  thirsty." 

"  Does  he  care  if  my  children  are  hungry  ?  " 

Denzil  tossed  the  water  greedily  clown  his  throat 
almost  at  a  gulp,  as  if  it  were  brandy. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  237 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  smacking  his  lips,  "  I  do  care. 
I  care  intensely.  Few  things  in  life  would  grieve 
me  more  deeply  than  to  hear  that  a  child,  a  dear 
little  child  —  the  Beautiful  in  a  nutshell  —  had  suf- 
fered hunger.  You  wrong  me."  His  voice  was 
tremulous  with  the  sense  of  injury.  Tears  stood  in 
his  eyes. 

"  Wrong  you?  I've  no  wish  to  wrong  you,"  said 
Mrs.  Crowl.     "  I  should  like  to  hang  you." 

"  Don't  talk  of  such  ugly  things,"  said  Denzil, 
touching  his  throat  nervously. 

"  Well,  what  have  you  been  doin'  all  this  time  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  should  I  be  doing  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  what  became  of  you  ?  I 
thought  it  was  another  murder." 

"  What !  "  Denzil's  glass  dashed  to  fragments  on 
the  floor.     "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

But  Mrs.  Crowl  was  glaring  too  viciously  at  Mr. 
Crowl  to  reply.  He  understood  the  message  as  if 
it  were  printed.  It  ran :  "  You  have  broken  one  of 
my  best  glasses.  You  have  annihilated  threepence, 
or  a  week's  school  fees  for  half  the  family."  Peter 
wished  she  would  turn  the  lightning  upon  Denzil,  a 
conductor  down  whom  it  would  run  innocuously. 
He  stooped  down  and  picked  up  the  pieces  as  care- 
fully as  if  they  were  cuttings  from  the  Koh-i-noor. 
Thus  the  lightning  passed  harmlessly  over  his  head 
and  flew  towards  Cantercot. 

"What   do  I  mean?"   Mrs.  Crowl   echoed,    as   if 


238  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

there  had  been  no  interval.  "  I  mean  that  it  would 
be  a  good  thing  if  you  had  been  murdered." 

"  What  unbeautiful  ideas  you  have  to  be  sure  !  " 
murmured  Denzil. 

"  Yes ;  but  they'd  be  useful,"  said  Mrs.  Crowl, 
who  had  not  lived  with  Peter  all  these  years  for 
nothing.  "  And  if  you  haven't  been  murdered,  what 
have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  my  dear,"  put  in  Crowl,  deprecatingly, 
looking  up  from  his  quadrupedal  position  like  a  sad 
dog,  "  you  are  not  Cantercot's  keeper." 

"  Oh,  ain't  I  ? "  flashed  his  spouse.  "  Who  else 
keeps  him,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

Peter  went  on  picking  up  the  pieces  of  the 
Koh-i-noor. 

"  I  have  no  secrets  from  Mrs.  Crowl,"  Denzil  ex- 
plained courteously.  "  I  have  been  working  day  and 
night  bringing  out  a  new  paper.  Haven't  had  a 
wink  of  sleep  for  three  nights." 

Peter  looked  up  at  his  bloodshot  eyes  with  re- 
spectful interest. 

"The  capitalist  met  me  in  the  street  —  an  old 
friend  of  mine  —  I  was  overjoyed  at  the  rencontre  and 
told  him  the  idea  I'd  been  brooding  over  for  months, 
and  he  promised  to  stand  all  the  racket." 

"  What  sort  of  a  paper  ?  "  said  Peter. 

"Can  you  ask  ?  To  what  do  you  think  I've  been 
devoting  my  days  and  nights  but  to  the  cultivation 
of  the  Beautiful  ?  " 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  239 

"Is  that  what  the  paper  will  be  devoted  to  ? 

"  Yes.     To  the  Beautiful." 

"  I  know,"  snorted  Mrs.  Crowl,  "  with  portraits  of 
actresses." 

"  Portraits  ?  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Denzil.  "  That  would 
be  the  True,  not  the  Beautiful." 

"  And  what's  the  name  of  the  paper  ? "  asked 
Crowl. 

"  Ah,  that's  a  secret,  Peter.  Like  Scott,  I  prefer 
to  remain  anonymous." 

"Just  like  your  Fads.  I'm  only  a  plain  man,  and 
I  want  to  know  where  the  fun  of  anonymity  comes 
in.  If  I  had  any  gifts,  I  should  like  to  get  the 
credit.  It's  a  right  and  natural  feeling  to  my 
thinking." 

"  Unnatural,  Peter ;  unnatural.  We're  all  born 
anonymous,  and  I'm  for  sticking  close  to  Nature. 
Enough  for  me  that  I  disseminate  the  Beautiful. 
Any  letters  come  during  my  absence,  Mrs.   Crowl?" 

"  No,"  she  snapped.  "  But  a  gent  named  Grodman 
called.  He  said  you  hadn't  been  to  see  him  for 
some  time,  and  looked  annoyed  to  hear  you'd  dis- 
appeared.    How  much  have  you  let  him  in  for  ? " 

"The  man's  in  my  debt,"  said  Denzil,  annoyed. 
"  I  wrote  a  book  for  him  and  he's  taken  all  the 
credit  for  it,  the  rogue !  My  name  doesn't  appear 
even  in  the  Preface.  What's  that  ticket  you're 
looking  so  lovingly  at,  Peter  ?  " 

"That's  for  to-night  —  the  unveiling  of  Constant's 


240  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

portrait.  Gladstone  speaks.  Awful  demand  for 
places." 

"Gladstone!"  sneered  Denzil.  "Who  wants  to 
hear  Gladstone  ?  A  man  who's  devoted  his  life  to 
pulling  down  the  pillars  of  Church  and  State." 

"  A  man  who's  devoted  his  whole  life  to  propping 
up  the  crumbling  Fads  of  Religion  and  Monarchy. 
But,  for  all  that,  the  man  has  his  gifts,  and  I'm 
burnin'  to  hear  him." 

"  I  wouldn't  go  out  of  my  way  an  inch  to  hear 
him,"  said  Denzil;  and  went  up  to  his  room,  and 
when  Mrs.  Crowl  sent  him  up  a  cup  of  nice  strong 
tea  at  tea-time,  the  brat  who  bore  it  found  him  lying 
dressed  on  the  bed,  snoring  unbeautifully. 

The  evening  wore  on.  It  was  fine  frosty  weather. 
The  Whitechapel  Road  swarmed  with  noisy  life,  as 
though  it  were  a  Saturday  night.  The  stars  flared 
in  the  sky  like  the  lights  of  celestial  costermongers. 
Everybody  was  on  the  alert  for  the  advent  of  Mr. 
Gladstone.  He  must  surely  come  through  the  Road 
on  his  journey  from  the  West  Bow-wards.  But  no- 
body saw  him  or  his  carriage,  except  those  about 
the  Hall.  Probably  he  went  by  tram  most  of  the 
way.  He  would  have  caught  cold  in  an  open  car- 
riage, or  bobbing  his  head  out  of  the  window  of  a 
closed. 

"  If  he  had  only  been  a  German  prince,  or  a  can- 
nibal king,"  said  Crowl,  bitterly,  as  he  plodded 
towards  the  Club,  "we  should   have  disguised  Mile 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  241 

End  in  bunting  and  blue  fire.  But  perhaps  it's  a 
compliment.  He  knows  his  London,  and  it's  no  use 
trying  to  hide  the  facts  from  him.  They  must  have 
queer  notions  of  cities,  those  monarchs.  They  must 
fancy  everybody  lives  in  a  flutter  of  flags  and  walks 
about  under  triumphal  arches,  like  as  if  I  were  to 
stitch  shoes  in  my  Sunday  clothes."  By  a  defiance 
of  chronology  Crowl  had  them  on  to-day,  and  they 
seemed  to  accentuate  the  simile. 

"And  why  shouldn't  life  be  fuller  of  the  Beauti- 
ful ? "  said  Denzil.  The  poet  had  brushed  the  reluc- 
tant mud  off  his  garments  to  the  extent  it  was  willing 
to  go,  and  had  washed  his  face,  but  his  eyes  were 
still  bloodshot  from  the  cultivation  of  the  Beautiful. 
Denzil  was  accompanying  Crowl  to  the  door  of  the 
Club  out  of  good  fellowship.  Denzil  was  himself 
accompanied  by  Grodman,  though  less  obtrusively. 
Least  obtrusively  was  he  accompanied  by  his  usual 
Scotland  Yard  shadows,  Wimp's  agents.  There  was 
a  surging  nondescript  crowd  about  the  Club,  so  that 
the  police,  and  the  doorkeeper,  and  the  stewards 
could  with  difficulty  keep  out  the  tide  of  the  ticket- 
less,  through  which  the  current  of  the  privileged 
had  equal  difficulty  in  permeating.  The  streets  all 
around  were  thronged  with  people  longing  for  a 
glimpse  of  Gladstone.  Mortlake  drove  up  in  a  han- 
som (his  head  a  self-conscious  pendulum  of  'popu- 
larity, swaying  and  bowing  to  right  and  left)  and 
received  all  the  pent-up  enthusiasm. 


242  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

"Well,  good-by,  Cantercot,"  said  Crowl. 

"  No,  I'll  see  you  to  the  door,  Peter." 

They  fought  their  way  shoulder  to  shoulder. 

Now  that  Grodman  had  found  Denzil  he  was  not 
going  to  lose  him  again.  He  had  only  found  him  by 
accident,  for  he  was  himself  bound  to  the  unveiling 
ceremony,  to  which  he  had  been  invited  in  view  of 
his  known  devotion  to  the  task  of  unveiling  the 
Mystery.  He  spoke  to  one  of  the  policemen  about, 
who  said,  "  Ay,  ay,  sir,"  and  he  was  prepared  to 
follow  Denzil,  if  necessary,  and  to  give  up  the  pleas- 
ure of  hearing  Gladstone  for  an  acuter  thrill.  The 
arrest  must  be  delayed  no  longer. 

But  Denzil  seemed  as  if  he  were  going  in  on  the 
heels  of  Crowl.  This  would  suit  Grodman  better. 
He  could  then  have  the  two  pleasures.  But  Denzil 
was  stopped  halfway  through  the  door. 

"  Ticket,  sir  !  " 

Denzil  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height. 

"  Press,"  he  said  majestically.  All  the  glories 
and  grandeurs  of  the  Fourth  Estate  were  concen- 
trated in  that  haughty  monosyllable.  Heaven  itself 
is  full  of  journalists  who  have  overawed  St.  Peter. 
But  the  doorkeeper  was  a  veritable  dragon. 

"What  paper,  sir  ?" 

"New  Pork  Herald,"  said  Denzil,  sharply.  He 
did  not  relish  his  word  being  distrusted. 

"New  York  Herald"  said  one  of  the  bystanding 
stewards,  scarce  catching  the  sounds.     "  Pass  him  in." 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  243 

And  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  Denzil  had  eagerly 
slipped  inside. 

But  during  the  brief  altercation  Wimp  had  come 
up.  Even  he  could  not  make  his  face  quite  impas- 
sive, and  there  was  a  suppressed  intensity  in  the 
eyes  and  a  quiver  about  the  mouth.  He  went  in  on 
Denzil's  heels,  blocking  up  the  doorway  with  Grod- 
man.  The  two  men  were  so  full  of  their  coming 
coups  that  they  struggled  for  some  seconds,  side  by 
side,  before  they  recognised  each  other.  Then  they 
shook  hands  heartily. 

"That  was  Cantercot  just  went  in,  wasn't  it,  Grod- 
man  ?  "  said  Wimp. 

"I  didn't  notice,"  said  Grodman,  in  tones  of  utter 
indifference. 

At  bottom  Wimp  was  terribly  excited.  He  felt 
that  his  coup  was  going  to  be  executed  under  very 
sensational  circumstances.  Everything  would  com- 
bine to  turn  the  eyes  of  the  country  upon  him  —  nay, 
of  the  world,  for  had  not  the  Big  Bow  Mystery  been 
discussed  in  every  language  under  the  sun  ?  In 
these  electric  times  the  criminal  receives  a  cosmopol- 
itan reputation.  It  is  a  privilege  he  shares  with  few 
other  artists.  This  time  Wimp  would  be  one  of 
them.  And  he  felt  deservedly  so.  If  the  criminal 
had  been  cunning  to  the  point  of  genius  in  planning 
the  murder,  he  had  been  acute  to  the  point  of  divina- 
tion in  detecting  it.  Never  before  had  he  pieced 
together  so  broken  a  chain.     He  could  not  resist  the 


244  THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

unique  opportunity  of  setting  a  sensational  scheme 
in  a  sensational  framework.  The  dramatic  instinct 
was  strong  in  him  ;  he  felt  like  a  playwright  who  has 
constructed  a  strong  melodramatic  plot,  and  has  the 
Drury  Lane  stage  suddenly  offered  him  to  present 
it  on.  It  would  be  folly  to  deny  himself  the  luxury, 
though  the  presence  of  Mr.  Gladstone  and  the 
nature  of  the  ceremony  should  perhaps  have  given 
him  pause.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  these  were  the 
very  factors  of  the  temptation.  Wimp  went  in  and 
took  a  seat  behind  Denzil.  All  the  seats  were  num- 
bered, so  that  everybody  might  have  the  satisfaction 
of  occupying  somebody  else's.  Denzil  was  in  the 
special  reserved  places  in  the  front  row  just  by  the 
central  gangway ;  Crowl  was  squeezed  into  a  corner 
behind  a  pillar  near  the  back  of  the  hall.  Grodman 
had  been  honoured  with  a  seat  on  the  platform, 
which  was  accessible  by  steps  on  the  right  and  left, 
but  he  kept  his  eye  on  Denzil.  The  picture  of  the 
poor  idealist  hung  on  the  wall  behind  Grodman's 
head,  covered  by  its  curtain  of  brown  holland. 
There  was  a  subdued  buzz  of  excitement  about  the 
hall,  which  swelled  into  cheers  every  now  and  again 
as  some  gentleman  known  to  fame  or  Bow  took  his 
place  upon  the  platform.  It  was  occupied  by  several 
local  M.P.'s  of  varying  politics,  a  number  of  other 
Parliamentary  satellites  of  the  great  man,  three  or 
four  labour  leaders,  a  peer  or  two  of  philanthropic 
pretensions,    a    sprinkling    of   Toynbee    and    Oxford 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  245 

Hall  men,  the  president  and  other  honorary  officials, 
some  of  the  family  and  friends  of  the  deceased,  to- 
gether with  the  inevitable  percentage  of  persons  who 
had  no  claim  to  be  there  save  cheek.  Gladstone 
was  late  —  later  than  Mortlake,  who  was  cheered  to 
the  echo  when  he  arrived,  some  one  starting  "  For 
He's  a  Jolly  Good  Fellow,"  as  if  it  were  a  political 
meeting.  Gladstone  came  in  just  in  time  to  acknow- 
ledge the  compliment.  The  noise  of  the  song,  trolled 
out  from  iron  lungs,  had  drowned  the  huzzahs  her- 
alding the  old  man's  advent.  The  convivial  chorus 
went  to  Mortlake's  head,  as  if  champagne  had  really 
preceded  it.  His  eyes  grew  moist  and  dim.  He  saw 
himself  swimming  to  the  Millennium  on  waves  of 
enthusiasm.  Ah,  how  his  brother  toilers  should  be 
rewarded  for  their  trust  in  him  ! 

With  his  usual  courtesy  and  consideration,  Mr. 
Gladstone  had  refused  to  perform  the  actual  unveil- 
ing of  Arthur  Constant's  portrait.  "  That,"  he  said 
in  his  postcard,  "  will  fall  most  appropriately  to  Mr. 
Mortlake,  a  gentleman  who  has,  I  am  given  to  under- 
stand, enjoyed  the  personal  friendship  of  the  late 
Mr.  Constant,  and  has  cooperated  with  him  in 
various  schemes  for  the  organisation  of  skilled  and 
unskilled  classes  of  labour,  as  well  as  for  the  diffusion 
of  better  ideals  —  ideals  of  self -culture  and  self- 
restraint  —  among  the  working  men  of  Bow,  who 
have  been  fortunate,  so  far  as  I  can  perceive,  in  the 
possession  (if  in  one  case  unhappily  only  temporary 


246  THE   BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

possession)  of  two  such  men  of  undoubted  ability  and 
honesty  to  direct  their  divided  counsels  and  to  lead 
them  along  a  road,  which,  though  I  cannot  pledge 
myself  to  approve  of  it  in  all  its  turnings  and  wind- 
ings, is  yet  not  unfitted  to  bring  them  somewhat 
nearer  to  goals  to  which  there  are  few  of  us  but 
would  extend  some  measure  of  hope  that  the  working 
classes  of  this  great  Empire  may  in  due  course,  yet 
with  no  unnecessary  delay,  be  enabled  to  arrive." 

Mr.  Gladstone's  speech  was  an  expansion  of  his 
postcard,  punctuated  by  cheers.  The  only  new 
thing  in  it  was  the  graceful  and  touching  way  in 
which  he  revealed  what  had  been  a  secret  up  till 
then  —  that  the  portrait  had  been  painted  and  pre- 
sented to  the  Bow  Break  o'  Day  Club,  by  Lucy 
Brent,  who  in  the  fulness  of  time  would  have  been 
Arthur  Constant's  wife.  It  was  a  painting  for  which 
he  had  sat  to  her  while  alive,  and  she  had  stifled  yet 
pampered  her  grief  by  working  hard  at  it  since  his 
death.  The  fact  added  the  last  touch  of  pathos  to 
the  occasion.  Crowl's  face  was  hidden  behind  his 
red  handkerchief ;  even  the  fire  of  excitement  in 
Wimp's  eye  was  quenched  for  a  moment  by  a  tear- 
drop, as  he  thought  of  Mrs.  Wimp  and  Wilfred.  As 
for  Grodman,  there  was  almost  a  lump  in  his  throat. 
Denzil  Cantercot  was  the  only  unmoved  man  in  the 
room.  He  thought  the  episode  quite  too  Beautiful, 
and  was  already  weaving  it  into  rhyme. 

At   the    conclusion  of  his    speech   Mr.    Gladstone 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  247 

called  upon  Tom  Mortlake  to  unveil  the  portrait. 
Tom  rose,  pale  and  excited.  He  faltered  as  he 
touched  the  cord.  He  seemed  overcome  with 
emotion.  Was  it  the  mention  of  Lucy  Brent  that 
had  moved  him  to  his  depths  ? 

The  brown  holland  fell  away  —  the  dead  stood  re- 
vealed as  he  had  been  in  life.  Every  feature,  painted 
by  the  hand  of  Love,  was  instinct  with  vitality : 
the  fine,  earnest  face,  the  sad  kindly  eyes,  the  noble 
brow,  seeming  still  a-throb  with  the  thought  of  Hu- 
manity. A  thrill  ran  through  the  room  —  there  was 
a  low,  undefinable  murmur.  Oh,  the  pathos  and  the 
tragedy  of  it !  Every  eye  was  fixed,  misty  with 
emotion,  upon  the  dead  man  in  the  picture,  and  the 
living  man  who  stood,  pale  and  agitated,  and  visibly 
unable  to  commence  his  speech,  at  the  side  of  the 
canvas.  Suddenly  a  hand  was  laid  upon  the  labour 
leader's  shoulder,  and  there  rang  through  the  hall  in 
Wimp's  clear,  decisive  tones  the  words  —  "  Tom 
Mortlake,  I  arrest  you  for  the  murder  of  Arthur 
Constant !  " 


IX 

For  a  moment  there  was  an  acute,  terrible  silence. 
Mortlake's  face  was  that  of  a  corpse  ;  the  face  of  the 
dead  man  at  his  side  was  flushed  with  the  hues  of 
life.  To  the  overstrung  nerves  of  the  onlookers,  the 
brooding  eyes  of  the  picture  seemed  sad  and  stern 


248  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

with    menace,    and    charged   with  the    lightnings  of 
doom. 

It  was  a  horrible  contrast.  For  Wimp,  alone, 
the  painted  face  had  fuller,  more  tragical  mean- 
ings. The  audience  seemed  turned  to  stone.  They 
sat  or  stood  —  in  every  variety  of  attitude  —  frozen, 
rigid.  Arthur  Constant's  picture  dominated  the 
scene,  the  only  living  thing  in  a  hall  of  the 
dead. 

But  only  for  a  moment.  Mortlake  shook  off  the 
detective's  hand. 

"  Boys ! "  he  cried,  in  accents  of  infinite  indigna- 
tion, "  this  is  a  police  conspiracy." 

His  words  relaxed  the  tension.  The  stony  figures 
were  agitated.  A  dull  excited  hubbub  answered 
him.  The  little  cobbler  darted  from  behind  his 
pillar,  and  leapt  upon  a  bench.  The  cords  of  his 
brow  were  swollen  with  excitement.  He  seemed  a 
giant  overshadowing  the  hall. 

"  Boys  ! "  he  roared,  in  his  best  Victoria  Park 
voice,  "  listen  to  me.  This  charge  is  a  foul  and 
damnable  lie." 

"  Bravo  !  "  "  Hear,  hear  !  "  "  Hooray  !  "  "  It 
is  !  "  was  roared  back  at  him  from  all  parts  of  the 
room.  Everybody  rose  and  stood  in  tentative  atti- 
tudes, excited  to  the  last  degree. 

"  Boys  !  "  Peter  roared  on,  "  you  all  know  me.  I'm 
a  plain  man,  and  I  want  to  know  if  it's  likely  a  man 
would  murder  his  best  friend." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  249 


<< 


No  !  "  in  a  mighty  volume  of  sound. 

Wimp  had  scarcely  calculated  upon  Mortlake's 
popularity.  He  stood  on  the  platform,  pale  and 
anxious  as  his  prisoner. 

"  And  if  he  did,  why  didn't  they  prove  it  the  first 
time  ? " 

"  Hear,  Hear  !  " 

"And  if  they  want  to  arrest  him,  why  couldn't 
they  leave  it  till  the  ceremony  was  over  ?  Tom 
Mortlake's  not  the  man  to  run  away." 

"Tom  Mortlake  !  Tom  M ortlake  !  Three  cheers 
for  Tom  Mortlake  !  "     "  Hip,  hip,  hip,  hooray !  " 

"Three  groans  for  the  police!"    "Hoo!    Oo!    Oo!" 

Wimp's  melodrama  was  not  going  well.  He  felt 
like  the  author  to  whose  ears  is  borne  the  ominous 
sibilance  of  the  pit.  He  almost  wished  he  had  not 
followed  the  curtain-raiser  with  his  own  stronger 
drama.  Unconsciously  the  police,  scattered  about 
the  hall,  drew  together.  The  people  on  the  plat- 
form knew  not  what  to  do.  They  had  all  risen  and 
stood  in  a  densely  packed  mass.  Even  Mr.  Glad- 
stone's speech  failed  him  in  circumstances  so  novel. 
The  groans  died  away  ;  the  cheers  for  Mortlake  rose 
and  swelled  and  fell  and  rose  again.  Sticks  and  um- 
brellas were  banged  and  rattled,  handkerchiefs  were 
waved,  the  thunder  deepened.  The  motley  crowd 
still  surging  about  the  hall  took  up  the  cheers,  and 
for  hundreds  of  yards  around  people  were  going 
black  in  the  face  out  of  mere  irresponsible  enthusi- 


250  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

asm.  At  last  Tom  waved  his  hand  —  the  thunder 
dwindled,  died.  The  prisoner  was  master  of  the 
situation. 

Grodman  stood  on  the  platform,  grasping  the  back 
of  his  chair,  a  curious  mocking  Mephistophelian 
glitter  about  his  eyes,  his  lips  wreathed  into  a  half 
smile.  There  was  no  hurry  for  him  to  get  Denzil 
Cantercot  arrested  now.  Wimp  had  made  an  egre- 
gious, a  colossal  blunder.  In  Grodman's  heart  there 
was  a  great,  glad  calm  as  of  a  man  who  has  strained 
his  sinews  to  win  in  a  famous  match,  and  has  heard 
the  judge's  word.  He  felt  almost  kindly  to  Denzil 
now. 

Tom  Mortlake  spoke.  His  face  was  set  and 
stony.  His  tall  figure  was  drawn  up  haughtily  to  its 
full  height.  He  pushed  the  black  mane  back  from 
his  forehead  with  a  characteristic  gesture.  The 
fevered  audience  hung  upon  his  lips  —  the  men  at 
the  back  leaned  eagerly  forward  —  the  reporters  were 
breathless  with  fear  lest  they  should  miss  a  word. 
What  would  the  great  labour  leader  have  to  say  at 
this  supreme  moment  ? 

"  Mr.  Chairman  and  gentlemen.  It  is  to  me  a 
melancholy  pleasure  to  have  been  honoured  with  the 
task  of  unveiling  to-night  this  portrait  of  a  great 
benefactor  to  Bow  and  a  true  friend  to  the  labouring 
classes.  Except  that  he  honoured  me  with  his 
friendship  while  living,  and  that  the  aspirations  of 
my  life  have,  in  my  small  and  restricted  way,  been 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  251 

identical  with  his,  there  is  little  reason  why  this 
honourable  duty  should  have  fallen  upon  me.  Gen- 
tlemen, I  trust  that  we  shall  all  find  an  inspiring 
influence  in  the  daily  vision  of  the  dead,  who  yet 
liveth  in  our  hearts  and  in  this  noble  work  of  art  — 
wrought,  as  Mr.  Gladstone  has  told  us,  by  the  hand 
of  one  who  loved  him."  The  speaker  paused  a  mo- 
ment, his  low  vibrant  tones  faltering  into  silence. 
"  If  we  humble  working  men  of  Bow  can  never  hope 
to  exert  individually  a  tithe  of  the  beneficial  influence 
wielded  by  Arthur  Constant,  it  is  yet  possible  for 
each  of  us  to  walk  in  the  light  he  has  kindled  in 
our  midst  —  a  perpetual  lamp  of  self-sacrifice  and 
brotherhood." 

That  was  all.  The  room  rang  with  cheers.  Tom 
Mortlake  resumed  his  seat.  To  Wimp  the  man's 
audacity  verged  on  the  Sublime ;  to  Denzil  on  the 
Beautiful.  Again  there  was  a  breathless  hush.  Mr. 
Gladstone's  mobile  face  was  working  with  excitement. 
No  such  extraordinary  scene  had  occurred  in  the 
whole  of  his  extraordinary  experience.  He  seemed 
about  to  rise.  The  cheering  subsided  to  a  painful 
stillness.  Wimp  cut  the  situation  by  laying  his  hand 
again  upon  Tom's  shoulder. 

"Come  quietly  with  me,"  he  said.  The  words 
were  almost  a  whisper,  but  in  the  supreme  silence 
they  travelled  to  the  ends  of  the  hall. 

"  Don't  you  go,  Tom  !  "  The  trumpet  tones  were 
Peter's.     The  call   thrilled   an    answering    chord    of 


252  THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

defiance  in  every  breast,  and  a  low  ominous  murmur 
swept  through  the  hall. 

Tom  rose,  and  there  was  silence  again.  "  Boys," 
he  said,  "  let  me  go.  Don't  make  any  noise  about 
it.     I  shall  be  with  you  again  to-morrow." 

But  the  blood  of  the  Break  o'  Day  boys  was  at 
fever  heat.  A  hurtling  mass  of  men  struggled  con- 
fusedly from  their  seats.  In  a  moment  all  was 
chaos.  Tom  did  not  move.  Half-a-dozen  men 
headed  by  Peter  scaled  the  platform.  Wimp  was 
thrown  to  one  side,  and  the  invaders  formed  a  ring 
round  Tom's  chair.  The  platform  people  scampered 
like  mice  from  the  centre.  Some  huddled  together 
in  the  corners,  others  slipped  out  at  the  rear.  The 
committee  congratulated  themselves  on  having  had 
the  self-denial  to  exclude  ladies.  Mr.  Gladstone's 
satellites  hurried  the  old  man  off  and  into  his  carriage, 
though  the  fight  promised  to  become  Homeric. 
Grodman  stood  at  the  side  of  the  platform  secretly 
more  amused  than  ever,  concerning  himself  no  more 
with  Denzil  Cantercot,  who  was  already  strengthen- 
ing his  nerves  at  the  bar  upstairs.  The  police  about 
the  hall  blew  their  whistles,  and  policemen  came 
rushing  in  from  outside  and  the  neighbourhood.  An 
Irish  M.P.  on  the  platform  was  waving  his  gingham 
like  a  shillelagh  in  sheer  excitement,  forgetting  his 
new-found  respectability  and  dreaming  himself  back 
at  Donnybrook  Fair.  Him  a  conscientious  constable 
floored  with  a  truncheon.     But  a  shower  of  fists  fell 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  253 

on  the  zealot's  face,  and  he  tottered  back  bleeding. 
Then  the  storm  broke  in  all  its  fury.  The  upper 
air  was  black  with  staves,  sticks,  and  umbrellas, 
mingled  with  the  pallid  hailstones  of  knobby  fists. 
Yells,  and  groans,  and  hoots,  and  battle-cries  blent 
in  grotesque  chorus,  like  one  of  Dvorak's  weird 
diabolical  movements.  Mortlake  stood  impassive, 
with  arms  folded,  making  no  further  effort,  and  the 
battle  raged  round  him  as  the  water  swirls  round  some 
steadfast  rock.  A  posse  of  police  from  the  back 
fought  their  way  steadily  towards  him,  and  charged 
up  the  heights  of  the  platform  steps,  only  to  be  sent 
tumbling  backwards,  as  their  leader  was  hurled  at 
them  like  a  battering-ram.  Upon  the  top  of  the 
heap  he  fell,  surmounting  the  strata  of  policemen.  But 
others  clambered  upon  them,  escalading  the  platform. 
A  moment  more  and  Mortlake  would  have  been 
taken.     Then  the  miracle  happened. 

As  when  of  old  a  reputable  goddess  ex  macJiind 
saw  her  favourite  hero  in  dire  peril,  straightway  she 
drew  down  a  cloud  from  the  celestial  stores  of 
Jupiter  and  enveloped  her  fondling  in  kindly  night, 
so  that  his  adversary  strove  with  the  darkness,  so  did 
Crowl,  the  cunning  cobbler,  the  much-daring,  essay 
to  ensure  his  friend's  safety.  He  turned  off  the  gas 
at  the  meter. 

An  Arctic  night  —  unpreceded  by  twilight  —  fell, 
and  there  dawned  the  sabbath  of  the  witches.  The 
darkness  could  be  felt  —  and  it  left  blood  and  bruises 


254  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

behind  it.  When  the  lights  were  turned  on  again, 
Mortlake  was  gone.  But  several  of  the  rioters  were 
arrested,  triumphantly. 

And  through  all,  and  over  all,  the  face  of  the  dead 
man,  who  had  sought  to  bring  peace  on  earth,  brooded. 
****** 

Crowl  sat  meekly  eating  his  supper  of  bread  and 
cheese,  with  his  head  bandaged,  while  Denzil  Canter- 
cot  told  him  the  story  of  how  he  had  rescued  Tom 
Mortlake.  He  had  been  among  the  first  to  scale  the 
height,  and  had  never  budged  from  Tom's  side  or 
from  the  forefront  of  the  battle  till  he  had  seen  him 
safely  outside  and  into  a  by-street. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  saw  that  he  got  away  safely," 
said  Crowl,  "  I  wasn't  quite  sure  he  would." 

"Yes  ;  but  I  wish  some  cowardly  fool  hadn't  turned 
off  the  gas.     I  like  men  to  see  that  they  are  beaten." 

"  But  it  seemed  —  easier,"  faltered  Crowl. 

"Easier!  "  echoed  Denzil,  taking  a  deep  draught  of 
bitter.  "  Really,  Peter,  I'm  sorry  to  find  you  always 
will  take  such  low  views.  It  may  be  easier,  but  it's 
shabby.     It  shocks  one's  sense  of  the  Beautiful." 

Crowl  ate  his  bread  and  cheese  shamefacedly. 

"  But  what  was  the  use  of  breaking  your  head  to 
save  him?"  said  Mrs.  Crowl,  with  an  unconscious 
pun.     "  He  must  be  caught." 

"  Ah,  I  don't  see  how  the  Useful  does  come  in, 
now,"  said  Peter,  thoughtfully.  "  But  I  didn't  think 
of  that  at  the  time." 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  255 

He  swallowed  his  water  quickly,  and  it  went  the 
wrong  way  and  added  to  his  confusion.  It  also 
began  to  dawn  upon  him  that  he  might  be  called  to 
account.  Let  it  be  said  at  once  that  he  wasn't.  He 
had  taken  too  prominent  a  part. 

Meantime,  Mrs.  Wimp  was  bathing  Mr.  Wimp's 
eye,  and  rubbing  him  generally  with  arnica.  Wimp's 
melodrama  had  been,  indeed,  a  sight  for  the  gods. 
Only  virtue  was  vanquished  and  vice  triumphant. 
The  villain  had  escaped,  and  without  striking  a  blow. 

X 

There  was  matter  and  to  spare  for  the  papers  the 
next  day.  The  striking  ceremony  —  Mr.  Gladstone's 
speech — the  sensational  arrest  —  these  would  of 
themselves  have  made  excellent  themes  for  reports 
and  leaders.  But  the  personality  of  the  man  arrested, 
and  the  Big  Bow  Mystery  Battle  —  as  it  came  to  be 
called  —  gave  additional  piquancy  to  the  paragraphs 
and  the  posters.  The  behaviour  of  Mortlake  put 
the  last  touch  to  the  picturesqueness  of  the  position. 
He  left  the  hall  when  the  lights  went  out,  and  walked 
unnoticed  and  unmolested  through  pleiads  of  police- 
men to  the  nearest  police  station,  where  the  superin- 
tendent was  almost  too  excited  to  take  any  notice  of 
his  demand  to  be  arrested.  But  to  do  him  justice, 
the  official  yielded  as  soon  as  he  understood  the  sit- 
uation. It  seems  inconceivable  that  he  did  not  violate 
some  red-tape  regulation  in  so  doing.     To  some  this 


256  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

self-surrender  was  limpid  proof  of  innocence ;  to 
others  it  was  the  damning  token  of  despairing 
guilt. 

The  morning  papers  were  pleasant  reading  for 
Grodman,  who  chuckled  as  continuously  over  his 
morning  egg,  as  if  he  had  laid  it.  Jane  was  alarmed 
for  the  sanity  of  her  saturnine  master.  As  her  hus- 
band would  have  said,  Grodman's  grins  were  not 
Beautiful.  But  he  made  no  effort  to  suppress  them. 
Not  only  had  Wimp  perpetrated  a  grotesque  blunder, 
but  the  journalists  to  a  man  were  down  on  his  great 
sensation  tableau,  though  their  denunciations  did  not 
appear  in  the  dramatic  columns.  The  Liberal  papers 
said  that  he  had  endangered  Mr.  Gladstone's  life ; 
the  Conservative  that  he  had  unloosed  the  raging 
elements  of  Bow  blackguardism,  and  set  in  motion 
forces  which  might  have  easily  swelled  to  a  riot, 
involving  severe  destruction  of  property.  But  "  Tom 
Mortlake"  was,  after  all,  the  thought  swamping 
every  other.  It  was,  in  a  sense,  a  triumph  for  the 
man. 

But  Wimp's  turn  came  when  Mortlake,  who 
reserved  his  defence,  was  brought  up  before  a  magis- 
trate, and  by  force  of  the  new  evidence,  fully  com- 
mitted for  trial  on  the  charge  of  murdering  Arthur 
Constant.  Then  men's  thoughts  centred  again  on 
the  Mystery,  and  the  solution  of  the  inexplicable 
problem  agitated  mankind  from  China  to  Peru. 

In  the  middle  of  February,  the  great  trial  befell. 


THE   BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  257 

It  was  another  of  the  opportunities  which  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  neglects.  So  stirring  a 
drama  might  have  easily  cleared  its  expenses  —  de- 
spite the  length  of  the  cast,  the  salaries  of  the  stars, 
and  the  rent  of  the  house  —  in  mere  advance  booking. 
For  it  was  a  drama  which  (by  the  rights  of  Magna 
Charta)  could  never  be  repeated ;  a  drama  which 
ladies  of  fashion  would  have  given  their  earrings  to 
witness,  even  with  the  central  figure  not  a  woman. 
And  there  was  a  woman  in  it  anyhow,  to  judge  by 
the  little  that  had  transpired  at  the  magisterial 
examination,  and  the  fact  that  the  country  was 
placarded  with  bills  offering  a  reward  for  information 
concerning  a  Miss  Jessie  Dymond.  Mortlake  was 
defended  by  Sir  Charles  Brown-Harland,  Q.C.,  re- 
tained at  the  expense  of  the  Mortlake  Defence  Fund 
(subscriptions  to  which  came  also  from  Australia  and 
the  Continent),  and  set  on  his  mettle  by  the  fact 
that  he  was  the  accepted  labour  candidate  for  an 
East-end  constituency.  Their  Majesties,  Victoria 
and  the  Law,  were  represented  by  Mr.  Robert 
Spigot,  O.C. 

Mr.  Spigot,  Q.C.,  in  presenting  his  case,  said :  "  I 
propose  to  show  that  the  prisoner  murdered  his  friend 
and  fellow-lodger,  Mr.  Arthur  Constant,  in  cold  blood, 
and  with  the  most  careful  premeditation ;  premedi- 
tation so  studied,  as  to  leave  the  circumstances  of 
the  death  an  impenetrable  mystery  for  weeks  to  all 
the   world,    though,    fortunately,    without    altogether 


258  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

baffling  the  almost  superhuman  ingenuity  of  Mr. 
Edward  Wimp,  of  the  Scotland  Yard  Detective  De- 
partment. I  propose  to  show  that  the  motives  of 
the  prisoner  were  jealousy  and  revenge ;  jealousy, 
not  only  of  his  friend's  superior  influence  over  the 
working  men  he  himself  aspired  to  lead,  but  the 
more  commonplace  animosity  engendered  by  the  dis- 
turbing element  of  a  woman  having  relations  to  both. 
If,  before  my  case  is  complete,  it  will  be  my  painful 
duty  to  show  that  the  murdered  man  was  not  the 
saint  the  world  has  agreed  to  paint  him,  I  shall  not 
shrink  from  unveiling  the  truer  picture,  in  the  inter- 
ests of  justice,  which  cannot  say  nil  nisi  bonum  even 
of  the  dead.  I  propose  to  show  that  the  murder  was 
committed  by  the  prisoner  shortly  before  half-past 
six  on  the  morning  of  December  4th,  and  that  the 
prisoner  having,  with  the  remarkable  ingenuity 
which  he  has  shown  throughout,  attempted  to  pre- 
pare an  alibi  by  feigning  to  leave  London  by  the 
first  train  to  Liverpool,  returned  home,  got  in  with 
his  latchkey  through  the  street  door,  which  he  had 
left  on  the  latch,  unlocked  his  victim's  bedroom  with 
a  key  which  he  possessed,  cut  the  sleeping  man's 
throat,  pocketed  his  razor,  locked  the  door  again, 
and  gave  it  the  appearance  of  being  bolted,  went 
downstairs,  unslipped  the  bolt  of  the  big  lock,  closed 
the  door  behind  him,  and  got  to  Euston  in  time 
for  the  second  train  to  Liverpool.  The  fog  helped 
his    proceedings    throughout."      Such    was    in    sum 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  259 

the  theory  of  the  prosecution.  The  pale,  defiant 
figure  in  the  dock  winced  perceptibly  under  parts 
of  it. 

Mrs.  Drabdump  was  the  first  witness  called  for 
the  prosecution.  She  was  quite  used  to  legal  in- 
quisitiveness  by  this  time,  but  did  not.  appear  in  good 
spirits. 

"On  the  night  of  December  3rd,  you  gave  the 
prisoner  a  letter?" 

"Yes,  your  ludship." 

"  How  did  he  behave  when  he  read  it  ?  " 

"  He  turned  very  pale  and  excited.  He  went  up 
to  the  poor  gentleman's  room,  and  I'm  afraid  he 
quarrelled  with  him.  He  might  have  left  his  last 
hours  peaceful."     (Amusement.) 

"  What  happened  then  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Mortlake  went  out  in  a  passion,  and  came 
in  again  in  about  an  hour." 

"  He  told  you  he  was  going  away  to  Liverpool 
very  early  the  next  morning  ? "  $>x  it. 

"  No,  your. ludship,  he  said  he  was  go>^g  to  idevon- 
port."     (Sensation.) 

"  What  time  did  you  get  up  the  next  morning  ?  " 

"  Half-past  six." 

"  That  is  not  your  usual  time  ?  " 

"  No,  I  always  get  up  at  six." 

"  How  do  you  account  for  the  extra  sleepiness  ?  " 

"  Misfortunes  will  happen." 

"  It  wasn't  the  dull,  foggy  weather  ?  " 


260  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

"No,  my  hid,  else  I  should  never  get  up  early." 
(Laughter.) 

"  You  drink  something  before  going  to  bed  ?  " 

"  I  like  my  cup  o'  tea.  I  take  it  strong,  without 
sugar.     It  always  steadies  my  nerves." 

"  Quite  so.  Where  were  you  when  the  prisoner 
told  you  he  was  going  to  Devonport?  " 

"  Drinkin'  my  tea  in  the  kitchen." 

"  What  should  you  say  if  prisoner  dropped  some- 
thing in  it  to  make  you  sleep  late  ?  " 

Witness  (startled) :  "  He  ought  to  be  shot." 

"  He  might  have  done  it  without  your  noticing  it, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

"If  he  was  clever  enough  to  murder  the  poor 
gentleman,  he  was  clever  enough  to  try  and  poison 
me." 

The  Judge  :  "  The  witness  in  her  replies  must 
confine  herself  to  the  evidence." 

Mr.  Spigot,  Q.C.  ;  "I  must  submit  to  your  lord- 
sh'st  tfttiis  it  is  a  very  logical  answer,,,  and  exactly 
illustrfc&eV  tht.c interdependence  of  the  probabilities. 
Now,  Mrs.  Drabdump,  let  us  know  what  happened 
when  you  awoke  at  half -past  six  the  next  morning." 
Thereupon  Mrs.  Drabdump  recapitulated  the  evi- 
dence (with  new  redundancies,  but  slight  variations) 
given  by  her  at  the  inquest.  How  she  became 
alarmed  —  how  she  found  the  street  door  locked  by 
the  big  lock  —  how  she  roused  Grodman,  and  got 
him  to  burst  open  the  door — how  they  found  the 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  261 

body  —  all  this  with  which  the   public  was   already 
familiar  ad  nauseam  was  extorted  from  her  afresh. 

"  Look  at  this  key  (key  passed  to  witness).  Do 
you  recognise  it  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  how  did  you  get  it  ?  It's  the  key  of  my  first- 
floor  front.     I  am  sure  I  left  it  sticking  in  the  door." 

"  Did  you  know  a  Miss  Dymond  ?  " 

"Yes,  Mr.  Mortlake's  sweetheart.  But  I  knew  he 
would  never  marry  her,  poor  thing."     (Sensation.) 

"Why  not?" 

"  He  was  getting  too  grand  for  her."    (Amusement.) 

"  You  don't  mean  anything  more  than  that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  she  only  came  to  my  place  once 
or  twice.  The  last  time  I  set  eyes  on  her  must  have 
been  in  October." 

"  How  did  she  appear?  " 

"  She  was  very  miserable,  but  she  wouldn't  let  you 
see  it."     (Laughter.) 

"  How  has  the  prisoner  behaved  since  the  murder?" 

"  He  always  seemed  very  glum  and  sorry  for  it." 

Cross-examined  :  "  Did  not  the  prisoner  once  oc- 
cupy the  bedroom  of  Mr.  Constant,  and  give  it  up 
to  him,  so  that  Mr.  Constant  might  have  the  two 
rooms  on  the  same  floor  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  he  didn't  pay  as  much." 

"  And,  while  occupying  this  front  bedroom,  did 
not  the  prisoner  once  lose  his  key  and  have  another 
made?" 

"  He  did  ;  he  was  very  careless." 


262  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

"  Do  you  know  what  the  prisoner  and  Mr.  Con- 
stant spoke  about  on  the  night  of  December  3rd  ? " 

"  No  ;   I  couldn't  hear." 

"  Then  how  did  you  know  they  were  quarrelling  ?  " 

"  They  were  talkin'  so  loud." 

Sir  Charles  Brown-Harland,  Q.C.  (sharply) : 
"  But  I'm  talking  loudly  to  you  now.  Should  you 
say  I  was  quarrelling  ?  " 

"  It  takes  two  to  make  a  quarrel."     (Laughter.) 

"  Was  prisoner  the  sort  of  man  who,  in  your 
opinion,  would  commit  a  murder  ? " 

"  No,  I  never  should  ha'  guessed  it  was  him." 

"  He  always  struck  you  as  a  thorough  gentleman  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lud.     I  knew  he  was  only  a  comp." 

"  You  say  the  prisoner  has  seemed  depressed  since 
the  murder.  Might  not  that  have  been  due  to  the 
disappearance  of  his  sweetheart  ?  " 

"  No,  he'd  more  likely  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  her." 

"Then  he  wouldn't  be  jealous  if  Mr.  Constant 
took  her  off  his  hands?"     (Sensation.) 

"Men  are  dog-in-the-mangers." 

"  Never  mind  about  men,  Mrs.  Drabdump.  Had 
the  prisoner  ceased  to  care  for  Miss  Dymond  ? " 

"  He  didn't  seem  to  think  of  her,  my  lud.  When 
he  got  a  letter  in  her  handwriting  among  his  heap  he 
used  to  throw  it  aside  till  he'd  torn  open  the  others." 

Brown-Harland,  Q.C.  (with  a  triumphant  ring  in 
his  voice):  "Thank  you,  Mrs.  Drabdump.  You  may 
sit  down." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  263 

Spigot,  Q.C.  :  "  One  moment,  Mrs.  Drabdump. 
You  say  the  prisoner  had  ceased  to  care  for  Miss 
Dymond.  Might  not  this  have  been  in  consequence 
of  his  suspecting  for  some  time  that  she  had  relations 
with  Mr.  Constant  ?  " 

The  Judge  :  "  That  is  not  a  fair  question." 

Spigot,  Q.C. :  "  That  will  do,  thank  you,  Mrs. 
Drabdump." 

Brown-Harland,  Q.C. :  "  No ;  one  question  more, 
Mrs.  Drabdump.  Did  you  ever  see  anything  —  say, 
when  Miss  Dymond  came  to  your  house  —  to  make 
you  suspect  anything  between  Mr.  Constant  and  the 
prisoner's  sweetheart?  " 

"  She  did  meet  him  once  when  Mr.  Mortlake  was 
out."     (Sensation.) 

"  Where  did  she  meet  him  ?  " 

"  In  the  passage.  He  was  going  out  when  she 
knocked  and  he  opened  the  door."      (Amusement.) 

"  You  didn't  hear  what  they  said  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  a  eavesdropper.  They  spoke  friendly  and 
went  away  together." 

Mr.  George  Grodman  was  called,  and  repeated 
his  evidence  at  the  inquest.  Cross-examined,  he 
testified  to  the  warm  friendship  between  Mr.  Con- 
stant and  the  prisoner.  He  knew  very  little  about 
Miss  Dymond,  having  scarcely  seen  her.  Prisoner 
had  never  spoken  to  him  much  about  her.  He 
should  not  think  she  was  much  in  prisoner's 
thoughts.       Naturally    the    prisoner    had    been    de- 


264  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

pressed  by  the  death  of  his  friend.  Besides,  he 
was  overworked.  Witness  thought  highly  of  Mort- 
lake's  character.  It  was  incredible  that  Constant 
had  had  improper  relations  of  any  kind  with  his 
friend's  promised  wife.  Grodman's  evidence  made 
a  very  favourable  impression  on  the  jury ;  the  pris- 
oner looked  his  gratitude ;  and  the  prosecution  felt 
sorry  it  had  been  necessary  to  call  this  witness. 

Inspector  Howlett  and  Sergeant  Runnymede  had 
also  to  repeat  their  evidence.  Dr.  Robinson,  police 
surgeon,  likewise  retendered  his  evidence  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  wound,  and  the  approximate  hour  of 
death.  But  this  time  he  was  much  more  severely 
examined.  He  would  not  bind  himself  down  to  state 
the  time  within  an  hour  or  two.  He  thought  life 
had  been  extinct  two  or  three  hours  when  he  arrived, 
so  that  the  deed  had  been  committed  between  seven 
and  eight.  Under  gentle  pressure  from  the  prose- 
cuting counsel,  he  admitted  that  it  might  possibly 
have  been  between  six  and  seven.  Cross-examined, 
he  reiterated  his  impression  in  favour  of  the  later 
hour. 

Supplementary  evidence  from  medical  experts 
proved  as  dubious  and  uncertain  as  if  the  court 
had  confined  itself  to  the  original  witness.  It 
seemed  to  be  generally  agreed  that  the  data  for 
determining  the  time  of  death  of  any  body  were 
too  complex  and  variable  to  admit  of  very  precise 
inference ;  rigor  mortis  and  other  symptoms  setting 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  265 

in  within  very  wide  limits  and  differing  largely  in 
different  persons.  All  agreed  that  death  from  such 
a  cut  must  have  been  practically  instantaneous,  and 
the  theory  of  suicide  was  rejected  by  all.  As  a 
whole  the  medical  evidence  tended  to  fix  the  time 
of  death,  with  a  high  degree  of  probability,  between 
the  hours  of  six  and  half-past  eight.  The  efforts 
of  the  prosecution  were  bent  upon  throwing  back 
the  time  of  death  to  as  early  as  possible  after  about 
half-past  five.  The  defence  spent  all  its  strength 
upon  pinning  the  experts  to  the  conclusion  that 
death  could  not  have  been  earlier  than  seven. 
Evidently  the  prosecution  was  going  to  fight  hard 
for  the  hypothesis  that  Mortlake  had  committed  the 
crime  in  the  interval  between  the  first  and  second 
trains  for  Liverpool ;  while  the  defence  was  concen- 
trating itself  on  an  alibi,  showing  that  the  prisoner 
had  travelled  by  the  second  train  which  left  Euston 
Station  at  a  quarter-past  seven,  so  that  there  could 
have  been  no  possible  time  for  the  passage  between 
Bow  and  Euston.  It  was  an  exciting  struggle.  As 
yet  the  contending  forces  seemed  equally  matched. 
The  evidence  had  gone  as  much  for  as  against  the 
prisoner.  But  everybody  knew  that  worse  lay 
behind. 

"  Call  Edward  Wimp." 

The  story  Edward  Wimp  had  to  tell  began  tamely 
enough  with  thrice-threshed-out  facts.  But  at  last 
the  new  facts  came. 


266  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

"  In  consequence  of  suspicions  that  had  formed  in 
your  mind  you  took  up  your  quarters,  disguised,  in 
the  late  Mr.  Constant's  rooms  ?  " 

"  I  did ;  at  the  commencement  of  the  year.  My 
suspicions  had  gradually  gathered  against  the  occu- 
pants of  No.  1 1  Glover  Street,  and  I  resolved  to 
quash  or  confirm  these  suspicions  once  for  all." 

"  Will  you  tell  the  jury  what  followed  ?  " 

"  Whenever  the  prisoner  was  away  for  the  night  I 
searched  his  room.  I  found  the  key  of  Mr.  Constant's 
bedroom  buried  deeply  in  the  side  of  prisoner's  leather 
sofa.  I  found  what  I  imagine  to  be  the  letter  he 
received  on  December  3rd,  in  the  pages  of  a  '  Brad- 
shaw '  lying  under  the  same  sofa.  There  were  two 
razors  about." 

Mr.  Spigot,  Q.C.,  said:  "The  key  has  already 
been  identified  by  Mrs.  Drabdump.  The  letter  I 
now  propose  to  read." 

It  was  undated,  and  ran  as  follows :  — 

"  Dear  Tom,  —  This  is  to  bid  you  farewell.  It  is 
best  for  us  all.  I  am  going  a  long  way,  dearest. 
Do  not  seek  to  find  me,  for  it  will  be  useless.  Think 
of  me  as  one  swallowed  up  by  the  waters,  and  be 
assured  that  it  is  only  to  spare  you  shame  and 
humiliation  in  the  future  that  I  tear  myself  from 
you  and  all  the  sweetness  of  life.  Darling,  there  is 
no  other  way.  I  feel  you  could  never  marry  me 
now.     I  have  felt  it    for  months.     Dear   Tom,  you 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  267 

will  understand  what  I  mean.  We  must  look  facts 
in  the  face.  I  hope  you  will  always  be  friends  with 
Mr.  Constant.  Good-by,  dear.  God  bless  you ! 
May  you  always  be  happy,  and  find  a  worthier 
wife  than  I.  Perhaps  when  you  are  great,  and  rich, 
and  famous,  as  you  deserve,  you  will  sometimes  think 
not  unkindly  of  one  who,  however  faulty  and  unworthy 
of  you,  will  at  least  love  you  till  the  end.  —  Yours,  till 
death,  Jessie." 

^--By  the  time  this  letter  was  finished  numerous  old 
gentlemen,  with  wigs  or  without,  were  observed  to  be 
polishing  their  glasses.  Mr.  Wimp's  examination  was 
resumed. 

"  After  making  these  discoveries  what  did  you 
do  ? " 

"  I  made  inquiries  about  Miss  Dymond,  and  found 
Mr.  Constant  had  visited  her  once  or  twice  in  the 
evening.  I  imagined  there  would  be  some  traces  of 
a  pecuniary  connection.  I  was  allowed  by  the  family 
to  inspect  Mr.  Constant's  cheque-book,  and  found  a 
paid  cheque  made  out  for  ^25  in  the  name  of  Miss 
Dymond.  By  inquiry  at  the  Bank,  I  found  it  had 
been  cashed  on  November  12th  of  last  year.  I  then 
applied  for  a  warrant  against  the  prisoner." 

Cross-examined:  "Do  you  suggest  that  the  pris- 
oner opened  Mr.  Constant's  bedroom  with  the  key 
you  found  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 


268  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

Brown-Harland,  Q.C.  (sarcastically) :  "  And 
locked  the  door  from  within  with  it  on  leaving  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  explain  how  the 
trick  was  done  ?  " 

"  It  wasn't  done.  (Laughter.)  The  prisoner  prob- 
ably locked  the  door  from  the  outside.  Those  who 
broke  it  open  naturally  imagined  it  had  been  locked 
from  the  inside  when  they  found  the  key  inside.  The 
key  would,  on  this  theory,  be  on  the  floor  as  the  out- 
side locking  could  not  have  been  effected  if  it  had 
been  in  the  lock.  The  first  persons  to  enter  the 
room  would  naturally  believe  it  had  been  thrown 
down  in  the  bursting  of  the  door.  Or  it  might  have 
been  left  sticking  very  loosely  inside  the  lock  so  as 
not  to  interfere  with  the  turning  of  the  outside  key, 
in  which  case  it  would  also  probably  have  been 
thrown  to  the  ground." 

"  Indeed.  Very  ingenious.  And  can  you  also 
explain  how  the  prisoner  could  have  bolted  the  door 
within  from  the  outside  ?  " 

"  I  can.  (Renewed  sensation.)  There  is  only  one 
way  in  which  it  was  possible  —  and  that  was,  of 
course,  a  mere  conjurer's  illusion.  To  cause  a 
locked  door  to  appear  bolted  in  addition,  it  would 
only  be  necessary  for  the  person  on  the  inside  of 
the  door  to  wrest  the  staple  containing  the  bolt  from 
the  woodwork.  The  bolt  in  Mr.  Constant's  bedroom 
worked  perpendicularly.     When  the  staple  was  torn 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  269 

off,  it  would  simply  remain  at  rest  on  the  pin  of  the 
bolt  instead  of  supporting  it  or  keeping  it  fixed.  A 
person  bursting  open  the  door  and  finding  the  staple 
resting  on  the  pin  and  torn  away  from  the  lintel  of 
the  door,  would,  of  course,  imagine  he  had  torn  it 
away,  never  dreaming  the  wresting  off  had  been 
done  beforehand."  (Applause  in  court,  which  was 
instantly  checked  by  the  ushers.)  The  counsel  for 
the  defence  felt  he  had  been  entrapped  in  attempt- 
ing to  be  sarcastic  with  the  redoubtable  detective. 
Grodman  seemed  green  with  envy.  It  was  the  one 
thing  he  had  not  thought  of. 

Mrs.  Drabdump,  Grodman,  Inspector  Howlett,  and 
Sergeant  Runnymede  were  recalled  and  reexamined 
by  the  embarrassed  Sir  Charles  Brown-Harland  as 
to  the  exact  condition  of  the  lock  and  the  bolt 
and  the  position  of  the  key.  It  turned  out  as 
Wimp  had  suggested ;  so  prepossessed  were  the 
witnesses  with  the  conviction  that  the  door  was 
locked  and  bolted  from  the  inside  when  it  was 
burst  open  that  they  were  a  little  hazy  about  the 
exact  details.  The  damage  had  been  repaired,  so 
that  it  was  all  a  question  of  precise  past  observation. 
The  inspector  and  the  sergeant  testified  that  the  key 
was  in  the  lock  when  they  saw  it,  though  both  the 
mortice  and  the  bolt  were  broken.  They  were  not 
prepared  to  say  that  Wimp's  theory  was  impossible ; 
they  would  even  admit  it  was  quite  possible  that  the 
staple  of   the   bolt   had   been   torn    off   beforehand. 


270  THE   BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

Mrs.  Drabdump  could  give  no  clear  account  of  such 
petty  facts  in  view  of  her  immediate  engrossing  inter- 
est in  the  horrible  sight  of  the  corpse.  Grodman 
alone  was  positive  that  the  key  was  in  the  door 
when  he  burst  it  open.  No,  he  did  not  remember 
picking  it  up  from  the  floor  and  putting  it  in.  And 
he  was  certain  that  the  staple  of  the  bolt  was  not 
broken,  from  the  resistance  he  experienced  in  try- 
ing to  shake  the  upper  panels  of  the  door. 

By  the  Prosecution  :  "  Don't  you  think,  from  the 
comparative  ease  with  which  the  door  yielded  to 
your  onslaught,  that  it  is  highly  probable  that  the 
pin  of  the  bolt  was  not  in  a  firmly  fixed  staple,  but 
in  one  already  detached  from  the  woodwork  of  the 
lintel?" 

"  The  door  did  not  yield  so  easily." 

"  But  you  must  be  a  Hercules." 

"  Not  quite ;  the  bolt  was  old,  and  the  woodwork 
crumbling ;  the  lock  was  new  and  shoddy.  But  I 
have  always  been  a  strong  man." 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Grodman.  I  hope  you  will  never 
appear  at  the  music-halls."     (Laughter.) 

Jessie  Dymond's  landlady  was  the  next  witness 
for  the  prosecution.  She  corroborated  Wimp's 
statements  as  to  Constant's  occasional  visits,  and 
narrated  how  the  girl  had  been  enlisted  by  the 
dead  philanthropist  as  a  collaborator  in  some  of  his 
enterprises.  But  the  most  telling  portion  of  her 
evidence   was   the   story  of    how,  late    at   night,  on 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  271 

December  3rd,  the  prisoner  called  upon  her  and 
inquired  wildly  about  the  whereabouts  of  his  sweet- 
heart. He  said  he  had  just  received  a  mysterious 
letter  from  Miss  Dymond  saying  she  was  gone. 
She  (the  landlady)  replied  that  she  could  have  told 
him  that  weeks  ago,  as  her  ungrateful  lodger  was 
gone  now  some  three  weeks  without  leaving  a  hint 
behind  her.  In  answer  to  his  most  ungentlemanly 
raging  and  raving,  she  told  him  it  served  him 
right,  as  he  should  have  looked  after  her  better, 
and  not  kept  away  for  so  long.  She  reminded 
him  that  there  were  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as 
ever  came  out,  and  a  girl  of  Jessie's  attractions 
need  not  pine  away  (as  she  had  seemed  to  be  pin- 
ing away)  for  lack  of  appreciation.  He  then  called 
her  a  liar  and  left  her,  and  she  hoped  never  to  see 
his  face  again,  though  she  was  not  surprised  to  see 
it  in  the  dock. 

Mr.  Fitzjames  Montgomery,  a  bank  clerk,  remem- 
bered cashing  the  cheque  produced.  He  particularly 
remembered  it,  because  he  paid  the  money  to  a  very 
pretty  girl.  She  took  the  entire  amount  in  gold.  At 
this  point  the  case  was  adjourned. 

Denzil  Cantercot  was  the  first  witness  called  for 
the  prosecution  on  the  resumption  of  the  trial. 
Pressed  as  to  whether  he  had  not  told  Mr.  Wimp 
that  he  had  overheard  the  prisoner  denouncing  Mr. 
Constant,  he  could  not  say.  He  had  not  actually 
heard  the  prisoner's  denunciations ;    he  might  have 


272  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

given  Mr.  Wimp  a  false  impression,  but  then  Mr. 
Wimp  was  so  prosaically  literal.  (Laughter.)  Mr. 
Crowl  had  told  him  something  of  the  kind.  Cross- 
examined,  he  said  Jessie  Dymond  was  a  rare  spirit 
and  she  always  reminded  him  of  Joan  of  Arc. 

Mr.  Crowl,  being  called,  was  extremely  agitated. 
He  refused  to  take  the  oath,  and  informed  the  court 
that  the  Bible  was  a  Fad.  He  could  not  swear  by 
anything  so  self-contradictory.  He  would  affirm. 
He  could  not  deny  —  though  he  looked  like  wishing 
to  —  that  the  prisoner  had  at  first  been  rather  mis- 
trustful of  Mr.  Constant,  but  he  was  certain  that  the 
feeling  had  quickly  worn  off.  Yes,  he  was  a  great 
friend  of  the  prisoner,  but  he  didn't  see  why  that 
should  invalidate  his  testimony,  especially  as  he  had 
not  taken  an  oath.  Certainly  the  prisoner  seemed 
rather  depressed  when  he  saw  him  on  Bank  Holiday, 
but  it  was  overwork  on  behalf  of  the  people  and  for 
the  demolition  of  the  Fads. 

Several  other  familiars  of  the  prisoner  gave  more 
or  less  reluctant  testimony  as  to  his  sometime  preju- 
dice against  the  amateur  rival  labour  leader.  His 
expressions  of  dislike  had  been  strong  and  bitter. 
The  prosecution  also  produced  a  poster  announcing 
that  the  prisoner  would  preside  at  a  great  meeting 
of  clerks  on  December  4th.  He  had  not  turned  up 
at  this  meeting  nor  sent  any  explanation.  Finally, 
there  was  the  evidence  of  the  detectives  who  origi- 
nally arrested  him  at  Liverpool  Docks  in  view  of  his 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  273 

suspicious  demeanour.     This  completed  the  case  for 
the  prosecution. 

Sir  Charles  Brown-Harland,  O.C.,  rose  with 
a  swagger  and  a  rustle  of  his  silk  gown,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  set  forth  the  theory  of  the  defence.  He 
said  he  did  not  purpose  to  call  many  witnesses. 
The  hypothesis  of  the  prosecution  was  so  inherently 
childish  and  inconsequential,  and  so  dependent  upon 
a  bundle  of  interdependent  probabilities  that  it  crum- 
bled away  at  the  merest  touch.  The  prisoner's  char- 
acter was  of  unblemished  integrity,  his  last  public 
appearance  had  been  made  on  the  same  platform 
with  Mr.  Gladstone,  and  his  honesty  and  highminded- 
ness  had  been  vouched  for  by  statesmen  of  the 
highest  standing.  His  movements  could  be  ac- 
counted for  from  hour  to  hour  —  and  those  with 
which  the  prosecution  credited  him  rested  on  no 
tangible  evidence  whatever.  He  was  also  credited 
with  superhuman  ingenuity  and  diabolical  cunning 
of  which  he  had  shown  no  previous  symptom.  Hy- 
pothesis was  piled  on  hypothesis,  as  in  the  old  Ori- 
ental legend,  where  the  world  rested  on  the  elephant 
and  the  elephant  on  the  tortoise.  It  might  be  worth 
while,  however,  to  point  out  that  it  was  at  least  quite 
likely  that  the  death  of  Mr.  Constant  had  not  taken 
place  before  seven,  and  as  the  prisoner  left  Euston 
Station  at  7.15  a.m.  for  Liverpool,  he  could  certainly 
not  have  got  there  from  Bow  in  the  time ;  also  that 
it   was    hardly  possible  for  the    prisoner,  who  could 


21i  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

prove  being  at  Euston  Station  at  5.25  a.m.,  to  travel 
backwards  and  forwards  to  Glover  Street  and  com- 
mit the  crime  all  within  less  than  two  hours.  "  The 
real  facts,"  said  Sir  Charles,  impressively,  "are  most 
simple.  The  prisoner,  partly  from  pressure  of  work, 
partly  (he  had  no  wish  to  conceal)  from  worldly 
ambition,  had  begun  to  neglect  Miss  Dymond,  to 
whom  he  was  engaged  to  be  married.  The  man  was 
but  human,  and  his  head  was  a  little  turned  by  his 
growing  importance.  Nevertheless,  at  heart  he  was 
still  deeply  attached  to  Miss  Dymond.  She,  how- 
ever, appears  to  have  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that 
he  had  ceased  to  love  her,  that  she  was  unworthy  of 
him,  unfitted  by  education  to  take  her  place  side  by 
side  with  him  in  the  new  spheres  to  which  he  was 
mounting  —  that,  in  short,  she  was  a  drag  on  his 
career.  Being,  by  all  accounts,  a  girl  of  remarkable 
force  of  character,  she  resolved  to  cut  the  Gordian 
knot  by  leaving  London,  and,  fearing  lest  her  affi- 
anced husband's  conscientiousness  should  induce  him 
to  sacrifice  himself  to  her ;  dreading  also,  perhaps, 
her  own  weakness,  she  made  the  parting  absolute, 
and  the  place  of  her  refuge  a  mystery.  A  theory 
has  been  suggested  which  drags  an  honoured  name 
in  the  mire  —  a  theory  so  superfluous  that  I  shall 
only  allude  to  it.  That  Arthur  Constant  could  have 
seduced,  or  had  any  improper  relations  with  his 
friend's  betrothed  is  a  hypothesis  to  which  the 
lives  of  both  give  the  lie.      Before  leaving  London 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  275 

—  or  England  —  Miss  Dymond  wrote  to  her  aunt  in 
Devonport  —  her  only  living  relative  in  this  country 

—  asking  her  as  a  great  favour  to  forward  an  ad- 
dressed letter  to  the  prisoner,  a  fortnight  after  re- 
ceipt. The  aunt  obeyed  implicitly.  This  was  the 
letter  which  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  on  the  prisoner 
on  the  night  of  December  3rd.  All  his  old  love  re- 
turned —  he  was  full  of  self-reproach  and  pity  for 
the  poor  girl.  The  letter  read  ominously.  Perhaps 
she  was  going  to  put  an  end  to  herself.  His  first 
thought  was  to  rush  up  to  his  friend,  Constant,  to 
seek  his  advice.  Perhaps  Constant  knew  something 
of  the  affair.  The  prisoner  knew  the  two  were  in 
not  infrequent  communication.  It  is  possible  —  my 
lord  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I  do  not  wish  to  fol- 
low the  methods  of  the  prosecution  and  confuse 
theory  with  fact,  so  I  say  it  is  possible  —  that  Mr. 
Constant  had  supplied  her  with  the  ,£25  to  leave  the 
country.  He  was  like  a  brother  to  her,  perhaps  even 
acted  imprudently  in  calling  upon  her,  though  neither 
dreamed  of  evil.  It  is  possible  that  he  may  have  en- 
couraged her  in  her  abnegation  and  in  her  altruis- 
tic aspirations,  perhaps  even  without  knowing  their 
exact  drift,  for  does  he  not  speak  in  his  very  last 
letter  of  the  fine  female  characters  he  was  meeting, 
and  the  influence  for  good  he  had  over  individual 
human  souls  ?  Still,  this  we  can  now  never  know, 
unless  the  dead  speak  or  the  absent  return.  It  is 
also  not  impossible  that  Miss  Dymond  was  entrusted 


276  THE   BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

with  the  ^25  for  charitable  purposes.  But  to  come 
back  to  certainties.  The  prisoner  consulted  Mr. 
Constant  about  the  letter.  He  then  ran  to  Miss 
Dymond's  lodgings  in  Stepney  Green,  knowing  be- 
forehand his  trouble  would  be  futile.  The  letter 
bore  the  postmark  of  Devonport.  He  knew  the  girl 
had  an  aunt  there ;  possibly  she  might  have  gone  to 
her.  He  could  not  telegraph,  for  he  was  ignorant 
of  the  address.  He  consulted  his  '  Bradshaw,'  and 
resolved  to  leave  by  the  5.30  a.m.  from  Paddington, 
and  told  his  landlady  so.  He  left  the  letter  in  the 
'  Bradshaw,'  which  ultimately  got  thrust  among  a 
pile  of  papers  under  the  sofa,  so  that  he  had  to  get 
another.  He  was  careless  and  disorderly,  and  the 
key  found  by  Mr.  Wimp  in  his  sofa,  which  he  was 
absurdly  supposed  to  have  hidden  there  after  the 
murder,  must  have  lain  there  for  some  years,  having 
been  lost  there  in  the  days  when  he  occupied  the 
bedroom  afterwards  rented  by  Mr.  Constant.  For  it 
was  his  own  sofa,  removed  from  that  room,  and  the 
suction  of  sofas  was  well  known.  Afraid  to  miss  his 
train,  he  did  not  undress  on  that  distressful  night. 
Meantime  the  thought  occurred  to  him  that  Jessie 
was  too  clever  a  girl  to  leave  so  easy  a  trail,  and  he 
jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  she  would  be  going 
to  her  married  brother  in  America,  and  had  gone  to 
Devonport  merely  to  bid  her  aunt  farewell.  He 
determined  therefore  to  get  to  Liverpool,  without 
wasting    time    at    Devonport,    to    institute    inquiries. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  277 

Not  suspecting  the  delay  in  the  transit  of  the  letter, 
he  thought  he  might  yet  stop  her,  even  at  the  land- 
ing-stage or  on  the  tender.  Unfortunately  his  cab 
went  slowly  in  the  fog,  he  missed  the  first  train,  and 
wandered  about  brooding  disconsolately  in  the  mist 
till  the  second.  At  Liverpool  his  suspicious,  excited 
demeanour  procured  his  momentary  arrest.  Since 
then  the  thought  of  the  lost  girl  has  haunted  and 
broken  him.  That  is  the  whole,  the  plain,  and  the 
sufficing  story." 

The  effective  witnesses  for  the  defence  were,  in- 
deed, few.  It  is  so  hard  to  prove  a  negative.  There 
was  Jessie's  aunt,  who  bore  out  the  statement  of  the 
counsel  for  the  defence.  There  were  the  porters 
who  saw  him  leave  Euston  by  the  7.15  train  for 
Liverpool,  and  arrive  just  too  late  for  the  5.15;  there 
was  the  cabman  (2138),  who  drove  him  to  Euston  just 
in  time,  he  (witness)  thought,  to  catch  the  5.15  a.m. 
Under  cross-examination,  the  cabman  got  a  little  con- 
fused ;  he  was  asked  whether,  if  he  really  picked 
up  the  prisoner  at  Bow  Railway  Station  at  about 
4.30,  he  ought  not  to  have  caught  the  first  train  at 
Euston.  He  said  the  fog  made  him  drive  rather 
slowly,  but  admitted  the  mist  was  transparent  enough 
to  warrant  full  speed.  He  also  admitted  being  a 
strong  trade  unionist,  Spigot,  Q.C.,  artfully  extorting 
the  admission  as  if  it  were  of  the  utmost  significance. 
Finally,  there  were  numerous  witnesses  —  of  all  sorts 
and  conditions  —  to  the  prisoner's  high  character,  as 


278  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

well  as  to   Arthur  Constant's  blameless  and   moral 
life. 

In  his  closing  speech  on  the  third  day  of  the  trial, 
Sir  Charles  pointed  out  with  great  exhaustiveness 
and  cogency  the  flimsiness  of  the  case  for  the  prose- 
cution, the  number  of  hypotheses  it  involved,  and 
their  mutual  interdependence.  Mrs.  Drabdump  was 
a  witness  whose  evidence  must  be  accepted  with  ex- 
treme caution.  The  jury  must  remember  that  she 
was  unable  to  dissociate  her  observations  from  her 
inferences,  and  thought  that  the  prisoner  and  Mr. 
Constant  were  quarrelling  merely  because  they  were 
agitated.  He  dissected  her  evidence,  and  showed 
that  it  entirely  bore  out  the  story  of  the  defence. 
He  asked  the  jury  to  bear  in  mind  that  no  positive 
evidence  (whether  of  cabmen  or  others)  had  been 
given  of  the  various  and  complicated  movements 
attributed  to  the  prisoner  on  the  morning  of  Decem- 
ber 4th,  between  the  hours  of  5.25  and  7.15  a.m.,  and 
that  the  most  important  witness  on  the  theory  of  the 
prosecution  —  he  meant,  of  course,  Miss  Dymond  — 
had  not  been  produced.  Even  if  she  were  dead,  and 
her  body  were  found,  no  countenance  would  be  given 
to  the  theory  of  the  prosecution,  for  the  mere  con- 
viction that  her  lover  had  deserted  her  would  be  a 
sufficient  explanation  of  her  suicide.  Beyond  the 
ambiguous  letter,  no  tittle  of  evidence  of  her  dis- 
honour —  on  which  the  bulk  of  the  case  against  the 
prisoner    rested  —  had    been    adduced.     As    for    the 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  279 

motive  of  political  jealousy  that  had  been  a  mere 
passing  cloud.  The  two  men  had  become  fast 
friends.  As  to  the  circumstances  of  the  alleged 
crime,  the  medical  evidence  was  on  the  whole  in 
favour  of  the  time  of  death  being  late ;  and  the  pris- 
oner had  left  London  at  a  quarter-past  seven.  The 
drugging  theory  was  absurd,  and  as  for  the  too 
clever  bolt  and  lock  theories,  Mr.  Grodman,  a  trained 
scientific  observer,  had  pooh-poohed  them.  He  would 
solemnly  exhort  the  jury  to  remember  that  if  they 
condemned  the  prisoner  they  would  not  only  send 
an  innocent  man  to  an  ignominious  death  on  the 
flimsiest  circumstantial  evidence,  but  they  would  de- 
prive the  working  men  of  this  country  of  one  of  their 
truest  friends  and  their  ablest  leader. 

The  conclusion  of  Sir  Charles's  vigorous  speech  was 
greeted  with  irrepressible  applause. 

Mr.  Spigot,  O.C.,  in  closing  the  case  for  the  prose- 
cution, asked  the  jury  to  return  a  verdict  against  the 
prisoner  for  as  malicious  and  premeditated  a  crime  as 
ever  disgraced  the  annals  of  any  civilised  country. 
*His  cleverness  and  education  had  only  been  utilised 
for  the  devil's  ends,  while  his  reputation  had  been 
used  as  a  cloak.  Everything  pointed  strongly  to 
the  prisoner's  guilt.  On  receiving  Miss  Dymond's 
letter  announcing  her  shame,  and  (probably)  her  in- 
tention to  commit  suicide,  he  had  hastened  upstairs 
to  denounce  Constant.  He  had  then  rushed  to  the 
girl's  lodgings,  and,  finding  his  worst  fears  confirmed, 


280  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

planned  at  once  his  diabolically  ingenious  scheme  of 
revenge.  He  told  his  landlady  he  was  going  to  Dev- 
onport,  so  that  if  he  bungled,  the  police  would  be 
put  temporarily  off  his  track.  His  real  destination 
was  Liverpool,  for  he  intended  to  leave  the  country. 
Lest,  however,  his  plan  should  break  down  here,  too, 
he  arranged  an  ingenious  alibi  by  being  driven  to 
Euston  for  the  5.15  train  to  Liverpool.  The  cab- 
man would  not  know  he  did  not  intend  to  go  by  it, 
but  meant  to  return  to  1 1  Glover  Street,  there  to  per- 
petrate this  foul  crime,  interruption  to  which  he  had 
possibly  barred  by  drugging  his  landlady.  His  pres- 
ence at  Liverpool  (whither  he  really  went  by  the 
second  train)  would  corroborate  the  cabman's  story. 
That  night  he  had  not  undressed  nor  gone  to  bed ; 
he  had  plotted  out  his  devilish  scheme  till  it  was 
perfect ;  the  fog  came  as  an  unexpected  ally  to  cover 
his  movements.  Jealousy,  outraged  affection,  the 
desire  for  revenge,  the  lust  for  political  power  — 
these  were  human.  They  might  pity  the  criminal, 
they  could  not  find  him  innocent  of  the  crime. 

Mr.  Justice  Crogie,  summing  up,  began  dead 
against  the  prisoner.  Reviewing  the  evidence,  he 
pointed  out  that  plausible  hypotheses  neatly  dove- 
tailed did  not  necessarily  weaken  one  another,  the 
fitting  so  well  together  of  the  whole  rather  making 
for  the  truth  of  the  parts.  Besides,  the  case  for  the 
prosecution  was  as  far  from  being  all  hypothesis  as 
the  case  for  the  defence  was  from  excluding  hypoth- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  281 

eses.  The  key,  the  letter,  the  reluctance  to  produce 
the  letter,  the  heated  interview  with  Constant,  the 
misstatement  about  the  prisoner's  destination,  the 
flight  to  Liverpool,  the  false  tale  about  searching 
for  a  "  him,"  the  denunciations  of  Constant,  all 
these  were  facts.  On  the  other  hand,  there  were 
various  lacunae  and  hypotheses  in  the  case  for  the 
defence.  Even  conceding  the  somewhat  dubious 
alibi  afforded  by  the  prisoner's  presence  at  Euston 
at  5.25  a.m.,  there  was  no  attempt  to  account  for 
his  movements  between  that  and  7.15  a.m.  It  was 
as  possible  that  he  returned  to  Bow  as  that  he  lin- 
gered about  Euston.  There  was  nothing  in  the 
medical  evidence  to  make  his  guilt  impossible.  Nor 
was  there  anything  inherently  impossible  in  Con- 
stant's yielding  to  the  sudden  temptation  of  a 
beautiful  girl,  nor  in  a  working  girl  deeming  herself 
deserted,  temporarily  succumbing  to  the  fascinations 
of  a  gentleman  and  regretting  it  bitterly  afterwards. 
What  had  become  of  the  girl  was  a  mystery.  Hers 
might  have  been  one  of  those  nameless  corpses  which 
the  tide  swirls  up  on  slimy  river  banks.  The  jury 
must  remember,  too,  that  the  relation  might  not  have 
actually  passed  into  dishonour,  it  might  have  been 
just  grave  enough  to  smite  the  girl's  conscience, 
and  to  induce  her  to  behave  as  she  had  done.  It 
was  enough  that  her  letter  should  have  excited  the 
jealousy  of  the  prisoner.  There  was  one  other  point 
which  he  would  like  to  impress  on  the  jury,  and  which 


282  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

the  counsel  for  the  prosecution  had  not  sufficiently 
insisted  upon.  This  was  that  the  prisoner's  guiltiness 
was  the  only  plausible  solution  that  had  ever  been 
advanced  of  the  Bow  Mystery.  The  medical  evi- 
dence agreed  that  Mr.  Constant  did  not  die  by  his 
own  hand.  Some  one  must  therefore  have  murdered 
him.  The  number  of  people  who  could  have  had  any 
possible  reason  or  opportunity  to  murder  him  was 
extremely  small.  The  prisoner  had  both  reason  and 
opportunity.  By  what  logicians  called  the  method 
of  exclusion,  suspicion  would  attach  to  him  on  even 
slight  evidence.  The  actual  evidence  was  strong 
and  plausible,  and  now  that  Mr.  Wimp's  ingenious 
theory  had  enabled  them  to  understand  how  the 
door  could  have  been  apparently  locked  and  bolted 
from  within,  the  last  difficulty  and  the  last  argument 
for  suicide  had  been  removed.  The  prisoner's  guilt 
was  as  clear  as  circumstantial  evidence  could  make 
it.  If  they  let  him  go  free,  the  Bow  Mystery  might 
henceforward  be  placed  among  the  archives  of  un- 
avenged assassinations.  Having  thus  well-nigh  hung 
the  prisoner,  the  judge  wound  up  by  insisting  on  the 
high  probability  of  the  story  for  the  defence,  though 
that,  too,  was  dependent  in  important  details  upon 
the  prisoner's  mere  private  statements  to  his  counsel. 
The  jury,  being  by  this  time  sufficiently  muddled  by 
his  impartiality,  were  dismissed,  with  the  exhortation 
to  allow  due  weight  to  every  fact  and  probability  in 
determining  their  righteous  verdict. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  283 

The  minutes  ran  into  hours,  but  the  jury  did  not 
return.  The  shadows  of  night  fell  across  the  reeking, 
fevered  court  before  they  announced  their  verdict  — 

"  Guilty !  " 

The  judge  put  on  his  black  cap. 

The  great  reception  arranged  outside  was  a  fiasco ; 
the  evening  banquet  was  indefinitely  postponed. 
Wimp  had  won ;  Grodman  felt  like  a  whipped  cur. 


XI 

"  So  you  were  right,"  Denzil  could  not  help  saying 
as  he  greeted  Grodman  a  week  afterwards.  "  I  shall 
not  live  to  tell  the  story  of  how  you  discovered  the 
Bow  murderer." 

"  Sit  clown,"  growled  Grodman  ;  "  perhaps  you  will 
after  all."  There  was  a  dangerous  gleam  in  his  eyes. 
Denzil  was  sorry  he  had  spoken. 

"I  sent  for  you,"  Grodman  said,  "to  tell  you  that 
on  the  night  Wimp  arrested  Mortlake  I  had  made 
preparations  for  your  arrest." 

Denzil  gasped,  "  What  for  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Denzil,  there  is  a  little  law  in  this  country 
invented  for  the  confusion  of  the  poetic.  The  greatest 
exponent  of  the  Beautiful  is  only  allowed  the  same 
number  of  wives  as  the  greengrocer.  I  do  not  blame 
you  for  not  being  satisfied  with'  Jane  —  she  is  a  good 
servant  but  a  bad  mistress  — but  it  was  cruel  to  Kitty 
not  to  inform  her  that  Jane  had  a  prior  right  in  you, 


284  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

and  unjust  to  Jane  not  to  let  her  know  of  the  contract 
with  Kitty." 

"  They  both  know  it  now  well  enough,  curse  'em," 
said  the  poet. 

"  Yes  ;  your  secrets  are  like  your  situations  —  you 
can't  keep  'em  long.  My  poor  poet,  I  pity  you  — 
betwixt  the  devil  and  the  deep  sea." 

"  They're  a  pair  of  harpies,  each  holding  over  me 
the  Damocles  sword  of  an  arrest  for  bigamy.  Neither 
loves  me." 

"  I  should  think  they  would  come  in  very  useful  to 
you.  You  plant  one  in  my  house  to  tell  my  secrets 
to  Wimp,  and  you  plant  one  in  Wimp's  house  to  tell 
Wimp's  secrets  to  me,  I  suppose.  Out  with  some, 
then." 

"  Upon  my  honour,  you  wrong  me.  Jane  brought 
mc  here,  not  I  Jane.  As  for  Kitty,  I  never  had  such 
a  shock  in  my  life  as  at  finding  her  installed  in  Wimp's 
house." 

"  She  thought  it  safer  to  have  the  law  handy  for 
your  arrest.  Besides,  she  probably  desired  to  occupy 
a  parallel  position  to  Jane's.  She  must  do  something 
for  a  living  ;  you  wouldn't  do  anything  for  hers.  And 
so  you  couldn't  go  anywhere  without  meeting  a  wife ! 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !     Serve  you  right,  my  polygamous  poet." 

"  But  why  should  you  arrest  me  ?  " 

"  Revenge,  Denzil.  I  have  been  the  best  friend 
you  ever  had  in  this  cold,  prosaic  world.  You  have 
eaten  my  bread,  drunk  my  claret,  written  my  book, 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  285 

smoked  my  cigars,  and  pocketed  my  money.  And 
yet,  when  you  have  an  important  piece  of  information 
bearing  on  a  mystery  about  which  I  am  thinking  day 
and  night,  you  calmly  go  and  sell  it  to  Wimp." 

"  I  did-didn't,"  stammered  Denzil. 

"  Liar !  Do  you  think  Kitty  has  any  secrets  from 
me  ?  As  soon  as  I  discovered  your  two  marriages  I 
determined  to  have  you  arrested  for  —  your  treachery. 
But  when  I  found  you  had,  as  I  thought,  put  Wimp 
on  the  wrong  scent,  when  I  felt  sure  that  by  arresting 
Mortlake  he  was  going  to  make  a  greater  ass  of  him- 
self than  even  nature  had  been  able  to  do,  then  I 
forgave  you.  I  let  you  walk  about  the  earth  —  and 
drink  —  freely.  Now  it  is  Wimp  who  crows  —  every- 
body pats  him  on  the  back — they  call  him  the 
mystery  man  of  the  Scotland  Yard  tribe.  Poor  Tom 
Mortlake  will  be  hanged,  and  all  through  your  telling 
Wimp  about  Jessie  Dymond  !  " 

"  It  was  you  yourself,"  said  Denzil,  sullenly. 
"  Everybody  was  giving  it  up.  But  you  said  '  Let 
us  find  out  all  that  Arthur  Constant  did  in  the  last 
few  months  of  his  life.'  Wimp  couldn't  miss  stum- 
bling on  Jessie  sooner  or  later.  I'd  have  throttled 
Constant,  if  I  had  known  he'd  touched  her,"  he 
wound  up  with  irrelevant  indignation. 

Grodman  winced  at  the  idea  that  he  himself  had 
worked  ad  majorem  gloriam  of  Wimp.  And  yet, 
had  not  Mrs.  Wimp  let  out  as  much  at  the  Christmas 
dinner  ? 


286  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

"  What's  past  is  past,"  he  said  gruffly.  "  But  if 
Tom  Mortlake  hangs,  you  go  to  Portland." 

"  How  can  I  help  Tom  hanging  ?  " 

"  Help  the  agitation  as  much  as  you  can.  Write 
letters  under  all  sorts  of  names  to  all  the  papers. 
Get  everybody  you  know  to  sign  the  great  petition. 
Find  out  where  Jessie  Dymond  is  —  the  girl  who 
holds  the  proof  of  Mortlake's  innocence." 

"  You  really  believe  him  innocent  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  satirical,  Denzil.  Haven't  I  taken  the 
chair  at  all  the  meetings  ?  Am  I  not  the  most  copious 
correspondent  of  the  Press  ?  " 

"  I  thought  it  was  only  to  spite  Wimp." 

"  Rubbish.  It's  to  save  poor  Tom.  He  no  more 
murdered  Arthur  Constant  than  —  you  did  !  "  He 
laughed  an  unpleasant  laugh. 

Denzil  bade  him  farewell,  frigid  with  fear. 

Grodman  was  up  to  his  ears  in  letters  and  tele- 
grams. Somehow  he  had  become  the  leader  of 
the  rescue  party  —  suggestions,  subscriptions  came 
from  all  sides.  The  suggestions  were  burnt,  the 
subscriptions  acknowledged  in  the  papers  and  used 
for  hunting  up  the  missing  girl.  Lucy  Brent  headed 
the  list  with  a  hundred  pounds.  It  was  a  fine  testi- 
mony to  her  faith  in  her  dead  lover's  honour. 

The  release  of  the  Jury  had  unloosed  "  The 
Greater  Jury,"  which  always  now  sits  upon  the 
smaller.  Every  means  was  taken  to  nullify  the  value 
of  the  "palladium  of  British  liberty."     The  foreman 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  287 

and  the  jurors  were  interviewed,  the  judge  was 
judged,  and  by  those  who  were  no  judges.  The 
Home  Secretary  (who  had  done  nothing  beyond 
accepting  office  under  the  Crown)  was  vituperated, 
and  sundry  provincial  persons  wrote  confidentially  to 
the  Queen.  Arthur  Constant's  backsliding  cheered 
many  by  convincing  them  that  others  were  as  bad 
as  themselves ;  and  well-to-do  tradesmen  saw  in 
Mortlake's  wickedness  the  pernicious  effects  of 
Socialism.  A  dozen  new  theories  were  afloat. 
Constant  had  committed  suicide  by  Esoteric  Bud- 
dhism, as  witness  his  devotion  to  Mme.  Blavatsky, 
or  he  had  been  murdered  by  his  Mahatma  or  victim- 
ised by  Hypnotism,  Mesmerism,  Somnambulism,  and 
other  weird  abstractions.  Grodman's  great  point 
was  —  Jessie  Dymond  must  be  produced,  dead  or 
alive.  The  electric  current  scoured  the  civilised 
world  in  search  of  her.  What  wonder  if  the 
shrewder  sort  divined  that  the  indomitable  detec- 
tive had  fixed  his  last  hope  on  the  girl's  guilt?  If 
Jessie  had  wrongs  why  should  she  not  have  avenged 
them  herself  ?  Did  she  not  always  remind  the  poet 
of  Joan  of  Arc  ? 

Another  week  passed  ;  the  shadow  of  the  gallows 
crept  over  the  days ;  on,  on,  remorselessly  drawing 
nearer,  as  the  last  ray  of  hope  sank  below  the  hori- 
zon. The  Home  Secretary  remained  inflexible  ;  the 
great  petitions  discharged  their  signatures  at  him  in 
vain.     He  was  a  Conservative,  sternly  conscientious  ; 


288  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

and  the  mere  insinuation  that  his  obstinacy  was  due 
to  the  politics  of  the  condemned  only  hardened  him 
against  the  temptation  of  a  cheap  reputation  for 
magnanimity.  He  would  not  even  grant  a  respite, 
to  increase  the  chances  of  the  discovery  of  Jessie 
Dymond.  In  the  last  of  the  three  weeks  there  was  a 
final  monster  meeting  of  protest.  Grodman  again  took 
the  chair,  and  several  distinguished  faddists  were 
present,  as  well  as  numerous  respectable  members  of 
society.  The  Home  Secretary  acknowledged  the 
receipt  of  their  resolutions.  The  Trade  Unions  were 
divided  in  their  allegiance ;  some  whispered  of  faith 
and  hope,  others  of  financial  defalcations.  The 
former  essayed  to  organise  a  procession  and  an 
indignation  meeting  on  the  Sunday  preceding  the 
Tuesday  fixed  for  the  execution,  but  it  fell  through 
on  a  rumour  of  confession.  The  Monday  papers 
contained  a  last  masterly  letter  from  Grodman  expos- 
ing the  weakness  of  the  evidence,  but  they  knew 
nothing  of  a  confession.  The  prisoner  was  mute 
and  disdainful,  professing  little  regard  for  a  life 
empty  of  love  and  burdened  with  self-reproach.  He 
refused  to  see  clergymen.  He  was  accorded  an 
interview  with  Miss  Brent  in  the  presence  of  a 
gaoler,  and  solemnly  asseverated  his  respect  for 
her  dead  lover's  memory.  Monday  buzzed  with 
rumours  ;  the  evening  papers  chronicled  them  hour 
by  hour.  A  poignant  anxiety  was  abroad.  The 
girl  would  be  found.     Some  miracle  would  happen. 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  289 

A  reprieve  would  arrive.  The  sentence  would  be 
commuted.  But  the  short  day  darkened  into  night 
even  as  Mortlake's  short  day  was  darkening.  And 
the  shadow  of  the  gallows  crept  on  and  on,  and 
seemed  to  mingle  with  the  twilight. 

Crowl  stood  at  the  door  of  his  shop,  unable  to 
work.  His  big  grey  eyes  were  heavy  with  unshed 
tears.  The  dingy  wintry  road  seemed  one  vast  ceme- 
tery ;  the  street  lamps  twinkled  like  corpse-lights. 
The  confused  sounds  of  the  street  life  reached  his 
ear  as  from  another  world.  He  did  not  see  the 
people  who  flitted  to  and  fro  amid  the  gathering 
shadows  of  the  cold,  dreary  night.  One  ghastly 
vision  flashed  and  faded  and  flashed  upon  the  back- 
ground of  the  duskiness. 

Denzil  stood  beside  him,  smoking  in  silence.  A 
cold  fear  was  at  his  heart.  That  terrible  Grodman  ! 
As  the  hangman's  cord  was  tightening  round  Mort- 
lake,  he  felt  the  convict's  chains  tightening  round 
himself.  And  yet  there  was  one  gleam  of  hope, 
feeble  as  the  yellow  flicker  of  the  gas-lamp  across 
the  way.  Grodman  had  obtained  an  interview  with 
the  condemned  late  that  afternoon,  and  the  parting 
had  been  painful,  but  the  evening  paper,  that  in  its 
turn  had  obtained  an  interview  with  the  ex-detective, 
announced  on  its  placard 

"  Grodman  Still  Confident," 
and  the  thousands  who  yet  pinned  their  faith  on  this 


290  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

extraordinary  man  refused  to  extinguish  the  last 
sparks  of  hope.  Denzil  had  bought  the  paper  and 
scanned  it  eagerly,  but  there  was  nothing  save  the 
vague  assurance  that  the  indefatigable  Grodman  was 
still  almost  pathetically  expectant  of  the  miracle. 
Denzil  did  not  share  the  expectation ;  he  meditated 
flight. 

"  Peter,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I'm  afraid  it's  all  over." 

Crowl  nodded,  heart-broken.  "All  over!"  he 
repeated,  "and  to  think  that  he  dies  —  and  it  is  — 
all  over!" 

He  looked  despairingly  at  the  blank  winter  sky, 
where  leaden  clouds  shut  out  the  stars.  "  Poor,  poor 
young  fellow !  To-night  alive  and  thinking.  To- 
morrow night  a  clod,  with  no  more  sense  or  motion 
than  a  bit  of  leather  !  No  compensation  nowhere  for 
being  cut  off  innocent  in  the  pride  of  youth  and 
strength  !  A  man  who  has  always  preached  the  Use- 
ful day  and  night,  and  toiled  and  suffered  for  his  fel- 
lows. Where's  the  justice  of  it,  where's  the  justice 
of  it  ? "  he  demanded  fiercely.  Again  his  wet  eyes 
wandered  upwards  towards  heaven,  that  heaven  away 
from  which  the  soul  of  a  dead  saint  at  the  Antipodes 
was  speeding  into  infinite  space. 

"Well,  where  was  the  justice  for  Arthur  Constant 
if  he,  too,  was  innocent?"  said  Denzil.  "Really, 
Peter,  I  don't  see  why  you  should  take  it  for  granted 
that  Tom  is  so  dreadfully  injured.  Your  horny- 
handed  labour  leaders  are,  after  all,  men  of  no  aes- 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  291 

thetic  refinement,  with  no  sense  of  the  Beautiful ;  you 
cannot  expect  them  to  be  exempt  from  the  coarser 
forms  of  crime.  Humanity  must  look  to  far  other 
leaders  —  to  the  seers  and  the  poets  !  " 

"Cantercot,  if  you  say  Tom's  guilty  I'll  knock  you 
down."  The  little  cobbler  turned  upon  his  tall  friend 
like  a  roused  lion.  Then  he  added,  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Cantercot,  I  don't  mean  that.  After  all,  I've 
no  grounds.  The  judge  is  an  honest  man,  and  with 
gifts  I  can't  lay  claim  to.  But  I  believe  in  Tom  with 
all  my  heart.  And  if  Tom  is  guilty  I  believe  in  the 
Cause  of  the  People  with  all  my  heart  all  the  same. 
The  Fads  are  doomed  to  death,  they  may  be  reprieved, 
but  they  must  die  at  last." 

He  drew  a  deep  sigh,  and  looked  along  the  dreary 
Road.  It  was  quite  dark  now,  but  by  the  light  of  the 
lamps  and  the  gas  in  the  shop  windows  the  dull, 
monotonous  Road  lay  revealed  in  all  its  sordid, 
familiar  outlines ;  with  its  long  stretches  of  chill 
pavement,  its  unlovely  architecture,  and  its  endless 
stream  of  prosaic  pedestrians. 

A  sudden  consciousness  of  the  futility  of  his  exist- 
ence pierced  the  little  cobbler  like  an  icy  wind.  He 
saw  his  own  life,  and  a  hundred  million  lives  like  his, 
swelling  and  breaking  like  bubbles  on  a  dark  ocean, 
unheeded,  uncared  for. 

A  newsboy  passed  along,  clamouring  "The  Bow 
murderer,  preparaitions  for  the  hexecution  !  " 

A  terrible  shudder  shook  the  cobbler's  frame.     His 


292  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

eyes  ranged  sightlessly  after  the  boy  ;  the  merciful 
tears  filled  them  at  last. 

"The  Cause  of  the  People,"  he  murmured  bro- 
kenly, "  I  believe  in  the  Cause  of  the  People.  There 
is  nothing  else." 

"  Peter,  come  in  to  tea,  you'll  catch  cold,"  said  Mrs. 
Crowl. 

Denzil  went  in  to  tea  and  Peter  followed. 

V  vk  #  ^f:  <3|£*  $Hi! 

Meantime,  round  the  house  of  the  Home  Secretary, 
who  was  in  town,  an  ever-augmenting  crowd  was 
gathered,  eager  to  catch  the  first  whisper  of  a  reprieve. 

The  house  was  guarded  by  a  cordon  of  police,  for 
there  was  no  inconsiderable  danger  of  a  popular  riot. 
At  times  a  section  of  the  crowd  groaned  and  hooted. 
Once  a  volley  of  stones  was  discharged  at  the  win- 
dows. The  newsboys  were  busy  vending  their  special 
editions,  and  the  reporters  struggled  through  the 
crowd,  clutching  descriptive  pencils,  and  ready  to 
rush  off  to  telegraph  offices  should  anything  "  extra 
special "  occur.  Telegraph  boys  were  coming  up 
every  now  and  again  with  threats,  messages,  petitions, 
and  exhortations  from  all  parts  of  the  country  to  the 
unfortunate  Home  Secretary,  who  was  striving  to 
keep  his  aching  head  cool  as  he  went  through  the 
voluminous  evidence  for  the  last  time  and  pondered 
over  the  more  important  letters  which  "  The  Greater 
Jury  "  had  contributed  to  the  obscuration  of  the  prob- 
lem.    Grodman's  letter  in  that  morning's  paper  shook 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  293 

him  most;  under  his  scientific  analysis  the  circum- 
stantial chain  seemed  forged  of  painted  cardboard. 
Then  the  poor  man  read  the  judge's  summing  up, 
and  the  chain  became  tempered  steel.  The  noise  of 
the  crowd  outside  broke  upon  his  ear  in  his  study  like 
the  roar  of  a  distant  ocean.  The  more  the  rabble 
hooted  him,  the  more  he  essayed  to  hold  scrupulously 
the  scales  of  life  and  death.  And  the  crowd  grew 
and  grew,  as  men  came  away  from  their  work.  There 
were  many  that  loved  the  man  who  lay  in  the  jaws  of 
death,  and  a  spirit  of  mad  revolt  surged  in  their 
breasts.  And  the  sky  was  grey,  and  the  bleak  night 
deepened,  and  the  shadow  of  the  gallows  crept  on. 

Suddenly  a  strange  inarticulate  murmur  spread 
through  the  crowd,  a  vague  whisper  of  no  one  knew 
what.  Something  had  happened.  Somebody  was 
coming.  A  second  later  and  one  of  the  outskirts  of 
the  throng  was  agitated,  and  a  convulsive  cheer  went 
up  from  it,  and  was  taken  up  infectiously  all  along 
the  street.  The  crowd  parted  —  a  hansom  dashed 
through  the  centre.  "Grodman!  Grodman!"  shouted 
those  who  recognised  the  occupant.  "  Grodman ! 
Hurrah!"  Grodman  was  outwardly  calm  and  pale, 
but  his  eyes  glittered ;  he  waved  his  hand  encourag- 
ingly as  the  hansom  dashed  up  to  the  door,  cleaving 
the  turbulent  crowd  as  a  canoe  cleaves  the  waters. 
Grodman  sprang  out,  the  constables  at  the  portal 
made  way  for  him  respectfully.  He  knocked  imper- 
atively, the  door  was  opened  cautiously  ;  a  boy  rushed 


294  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

up  and  delivered  a  telegram ;  Grodman  forced  his 
way  in,  gave  his  name,  and  insisted  on  seeing  the 
Home  Secretary  on  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
Those  near  the  door  heard  his  words  and  cheered, 
and  the  crowd  divined  the  good  omen,  and  the  air 
throbbed  with  cannonades  of  joyous  sound.  The 
cheers  rang  in  Grodman's  ears  as  the  door  slammed 
behind  him.  The  reporters  struggled  to  the  front. 
An  excited  knot  of  working  men  pressed  round  the 
arrested  hansom ;  they  took  the  horse  out.  A  dozen 
enthusiasts  struggled  for  the  honour  of  placing  them- 
selves between  the  shafts.  And  the  crowd  awaited 
Grodman. 

XII 

Grodman  was  ushered  into  the  conscientious  Min- 
ister's study.  The  doughty  chief  of  the  agitation 
was,  perhaps,  the  one  man  who  could  not  be  denied. 
As  he  entered,  the  Home  Secretary's  face  seemed  lit 
up  with  relief.  At  a  sign  from  his  master,  the  aman- 
uensis who  had  brought  in  the  last  telegram  took  it 
back  with  him  into  the  outer  room  where  he  worked. 
Needless  to  say  not  a  tithe  of  the  Minister's  corre- 
spondence ever  came  under  his  own  eyes. 

"You  have  a  valid  reason  for  troubling  me,  I  sup- 
pose, Mr.  Grodman  ? "  said  the  Home  Secretary, 
almost  cheerfully.  "  Of  course  it  is  about  Mort- 
lake  ? " 

"  It  is ;  and  I  have  the  best  of  all  reasons." 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  295 

"  Take  a  seat.     Proceed." 

"  Pray  do  not  consider  me  impertinent,  but  have 
you  ever  given  any  attention  to  the  science  of  evi- 
dence ? " 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  Home  Secretary, 
rather  puzzled,  adding,  with  a  melancholy  smile,  "  I 
have  had  to  lately.  Of  course,  I've  never  been  a 
criminal  lawyer,  like  some  of  my  predecessors.  But 
I  should  hardly  speak  of  it  as  a  science ;  I  look  upon 
it  as  a  question  of  common-sense." 

"  Pardon  me,  sir.  It  is  the  most  subtle  and  difficult 
of  all  the  sciences.  It  is,  indeed,  rather  the  science  of 
the  sciences.  What  is  the  whole  of  Inductive  Logic, 
as  laid  down,  say,  by  Bacon  and  Mill,  but  an  attempt 
to  appraise  the  value  of  evidence,  the  said  evidence 
being  the  trails  left  by  the  Creator,  so  to  speak  ? 
The  Creator  has  —  I  say  it  in  all  reverence  —  drawn 
a  myriad  red  herrings  across  the  track,  but  the  true 
scientist  refuses  to  be  baffled  by  superficial  appearances 
in  detecting  the  secrets  of  Nature.  The  vulgar  herd 
catches  at  the  gross  apparent  fact,  but  the  man  of  in- 
sight knows  that  what  lies  on  the  surface  does  lie." 

"  Very  interesting,  Mr.  Grodman,  but  really  —  " 

"  Bear  with  me,  sir.  The  science  of  evidence  being 
thus  so  extremely  subtle,  and  demanding  the  most 
acute  and  trained  observation  of  facts,  the  most  com- 
prehensive understanding  of  human  psychology,  is 
naturally  given  over  to  professors  who  have  not  the 
remotest  idea  that  '  things  are  not  what  they  seem,' 


296  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

and  that  everything  is  other  than  it  appears  ;  to  pro- 
fessors, most  of  whom  by  their  year-long  devotion  to 
the  shop-counter  or  the  desk,  have  acquired  an  inti- 
mate acquaintance  with  all  the  infinite  shades  and 
complexities  of  things  and  human  nature.  When 
twelve  of  these  professors  are  put  in  a  box,  it  is  called 
a  jury.  When  one  of  these  professors  is  put  in  a  box 
by  himself,  he  is  called  a  witness.  The  retailing  of 
evidence  —  the  observation  of  the  facts  —  is  given 
over  to  people  who  go  through  their  lives  without 
eyes;  the  appreciation  of  evidence  —  the  judging  of 
these  facts  —  is  surrendered  to  people  who  may  pos- 
sibly be  adepts  in  weighing  out  pounds  of  sugar. 
Apart  from  their  sheer  inability  to  fulfil  either  func- 
tion —  to  observe,  or  to  judge  —  their  observation  and 
their  judgment  alike  are  vitiated  by  all  sorts  of  irrele- 
vant prejudices." 

"You  are  attacking  trial  by  jury." 

"  Not  necessarily.  I  am  prepared  to  accept  that 
scientifically,  on  the  ground  that,  as  there  are,  as  a 
rule,  only  two  alternatives,  the  balance  of  probability 
is  slightly  in  favour  of  the  true  decision  being  come 
to.  Then,  in  cases  where  experts  like  myself  have 
got  up  the  evidence,  the  jury  can  be  made  to  see 
through  trained  eyes." 

The  Home  Secretary  tapped  impatiently  with  his 
foot. 

"  I  can't  listen  to  abstract  theorising,"  he  said. 
"  Have  you  any  fresh  concrete  evidence  ? " 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  297 

"  Sir,  everything  depends  on  our  getting  down  to 
the  root  of  the  matter.  What  percentage  of  average 
evidence  should  you  think  is  thorough,  plain,  simple, 
unvarnished  fact,  '  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth  '  ?  " 

"  Fifty  ?  "  said  the  Minister,  humouring  him  a  little. 

"  Not  five.  I  say  nothing  of  lapses  of  memory, 
of  inborn  defects  of  observational  power  —  though 
the  suspiciously  precise  recollection  of  dates  and 
events  possessed  by  ordinary  witnesses  in  important 
trials  taking  place  years  after  the  occurrences  in- 
volved, is  one  of  the  most  amazing  things  in  the 
curiosities  of  modern  jurisprudence.  I  defy  you, 
sir,  to  tell  me  what  you  had  for  dinner  last  Monday, 
or  what  exactly  you  were  saying  and  doing  at  five 
o'clock  last  Tuesday  afternoon.  Nobody  whose  life 
does  not  run  in  mechanical  grooves  can  do  anything 
of  the  sort ;  unless,  of  course,  the  facts  have  been 
very  impressive.  But  this  by  the  way.  The  great 
obstacle  to  veracious  observation  is  the  element  of 
prepossession  in  all  vision.  Has  it  ever  struck  you, 
sir,  that  we  never  see  any  one  more  than  once,  if 
that  ?  The  first  time  we  meet  a  man  we  may  possibly 
see  him  as  he  is ;  the  second  time  our  vision  is 
coloured  and  modified  by  the  memory  of  the  first. 
Do  our  friends  appear  to  us  as  they  appear  to 
strangers  ?  Do  our  rooms,  our  furniture,  our  pipes 
strike  our  eye  as  they  would  strike  the  eye  of  an  out- 
sider, looking    on    them    for  the  first  time  ?     Can  a 


298  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

mother  see  her  babe's  ugliness,  or  a  lover  his  mis- 
tress's shortcomings,  though  they  stare  everybody 
else  in  the  face  ?  Can  we  see  ourselves  as  others 
see  us  ?  No  ;  habit,  prepossession  changes  all.  The 
mind  is  a  large  factor  of  every  so-called  external  fact. 
The  eye  sees,  sometimes,  what  it  wishes  to  see,  more 
often  what  it  expects  to  see.     You  follow  me,  sir  ?  " 

The  Home  Secretary  nodded  his  head  less  im- 
patiently. He  was  beginning  to  be  interested.  The 
hubbub  from  without  broke  faintly  upon  their  ears. 

"To  give  you  a  definite  example.  Mr.  Wimp  says 
that  when  I  burst  open  the  door  of  Mr.  Constant's 
room  on  the  morning  of  December  4th,  and  saw  that 
the  staple  of  the  bolt  had  been  wrested  by  the  pin 
from  the  lintel,  I  jumped  at  once  to  the  conclusion 
that  I  had  broken  the  bolt.  Now  I  admit  that  this 
was  so,  only  in  things  like  this  you  do  not  seem  to 
conclude,  you  jump  so  fast  that  you  see,  or  seem  to. 
On  the  other  hand,  when  you  see  a  standing  ring  of 
fire  produced  by  whirling  a  burning  stick,  you  do 
not  believe  in  its  continuous  existence.  It  is  the 
same  when  witnessing  a  legerdemain  performance. 
Seeing  is  not  always  believing,  despite  the  proverb  ; 
but  believing  is  often  seeing.  It  is  not  to  the  point 
that  in  that  little  matter  of  the  door  Wimp  was  as 
hopelessly  and  incurably  wrong  as  he  has  been  in 
everything  all  along.  The  door  zvas  securely  bolted. 
Still  I  confess  that  I  should  have  seen  that  I  had 
broken  the  bolt  in  forcing  the  door,   even  if  it  had 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  299 

been  broken  beforehand.  Never  once  since  Decem- 
ber 4th  did  this  possibility  occur  to  me,  till  Wimp  with 
perverted  ingenuity  suggested  it.  If  this  is  the  case 
with  a  trained  observer,  one  moreover  fully  con- 
scious of  this  ineradicable  tendency  of  the  human 
mind,  how  must  it  be  with  an  untrained  observer  ? " 

"Come  to  the  point,  come  to  the  point,"  said  the 
Home  Secretary,  putting  out  his  hand  as  if  it  itched 
to  touch  the  bell  on  the  writing-table. 

"  Such  as,"  went  on  Grodman,  imperturbably, 
"such  as  —  Mrs.  Drabdump.  That  worthy  person  is 
unable,  by  repeated  violent  knocking,  to  arouse  her 
lodger  who  yet  desires  to  be  aroused ;  she  becomes 
alarmed,  she  rushes  across  to  get  my  assistance ;  I 
burst  open  the  door  —  what  do  you  think  the  good 
lady  expected  to  see  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Constant  murdered,  I  suppose,"  murmured 
the  Home  Secretary,  wonderingly. 

"  Exactly.  And  so  she  saw  it.  And  what  should 
you  think  was  the  condition  of  Arthur  Constant 
when  the  door  yielded  to  my  violent  exertions  and 
flew  open  ? " 

"  Why,  was  he  not  dead  ? "  gasped  the  Home 
Secretary,  his  heart  fluttering  violently. 

"  Dead  ?  A  young,  healthy  fellow  like  that !  When 
the  door  flew  open,  Arthur  Constant  was  sleeping 
the  sleep  of  the  just.  It  was  a  deep,  a  very  deep 
sleep,  of  course,  else  the  blows  at  his  door  would  long 
since   have  awakened  him.     But  all  the  while  Mrs. 


300  THE   BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

Drabdump's  fancy  was  picturing  her  lodger  cold  and 
stark,  the  poor  young  fellow  was  lying  in  bed  in  a 
nice  warm  sleep." 

"  You  mean  to  say  you  found  Arthur  Constant 
alive  ? " 

"  As  you  were  last  night." 

The  Minister  was  silent,  striving  confusedly  to  take 
in  the  situation.  Outside  the  crowd  was  cheering 
again.     It  was  probably  to  pass  the  time. 

"  Then,  when  was  he  murdered  ?  " 

"  Immediately  afterwards." 

"  By  whom  ?  " 

"  Well,  that  is,  if  you  will  pardon  me,  not  a  very 
intelligent  question.  Science  and  common-sense  are 
in  accord  for  once.  Try  the  method  of  exhaustion. 
It  must  have  been  either  by  Mrs.  Drabdump  or 
myself." 

"You  mean  to  say  that  Mrs.  Drabdump  — !  ' 

"  Poor  dear  Mrs.  Drabdump,  you  don't  deserve 
this  of  your  Home  Secretary  !  The  idea  of  that 
good  lady  !  " 

"It  was  you  //" 

"  Calm  yourself,  my  dear  Home  Secretary.  There 
is  nothing  to  be  alarmed  at.  It  was  a  solitary  experi- 
ment, and  I  intend  it  to  remain  so."  The  noise  with- 
out grew  louder.  "  Three  cheers  for  Grodman ! 
Hip,  hip,  hip,  hooray,"  fell  faintly  on  their  ears. 

But  the  Minister,  pallid  and  deeply  moved,  touched 
the   bell.     The    Home    Secretary's     home    secretary 


THE   BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  301 

appeared.  He  looked  at  the  great  man's  agitated 
face  with  suppressed  surprise. 

"Thank  you  for  calling  in  your  amanuensis,"  said 
Grodman.  "  I  intended  to  ask  you  to  lend  me  his 
services.     I  suppose  he  can  write  shorthand." 

The  Minister  nodded,  speechless. 

"  That  is  well.  I  intend  this  statement  to  form 
the  basis  of  an  appendix  to  the  twenty-fifth  edition 
—  sort  of  silver  wedding  —  of  my  book,  Criminals  I 
have  Caught.  Mr.  Denzil  Cantercot,  who,  by  the 
will  I  have  made  to-day,  is  appointed  my  literary 
executor,  will  have  the  task  of  working  it  up  with 
literary  and  dramatic  touches  after  the  model  of  the 
other  chapters  of  my  book.  I  have  every  confidence 
he  will  be  able  to  do  me  as  much  justice,  from  a 
literary  point  of  view,  as  you,  sir,  no  doubt  will  from 
a  legal.  I  feel  certain  he  will  succeed  in  catching 
the  style  of  the  other  chapters  to  perfection." 

"  Templeton,"  whispered  the  Home  Secretary, 
"this  man  may  be  a  lunatic.  The  effort  to  solve 
the  Big  Bow  Mystery  may  have  addled  his  brain. 
Still,  "  he  added  aloud,  "  it  will  be  as  well  for  you  to 
take  down  his  statement  in  shorthand." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Grodman,  heartily.  "  Ready, 
Mr.  Templeton  ?  Here  goes.  My  career  till  I  left 
the  Scotland  Yard  Detective  Department  is  known 
to  all  the  world.  Is  that  too  fast  for  you,  Mr.  Tem- 
pleton ?  A  little  ?  Well,  I'll  go  slower  ;  but  pull  me 
up  if  I  forget  to  keep  the  brake  on.     When  I  retired, 


302  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

I  discovered  that  I  was  a  bachelor.  But  it  was 
too  late  to  marry.  Time  hung  heavy  on  my  hands. 
The  preparation  of  my  book,  Criminals  I  have 
Caught,  kept  me  occupied  for  some  months.  When 
it  was  published,  I  had  nothing  more  to  do  but  think. 
I  had  plenty  of  money,  and  it  was  safely  invested ; 
there  was  no  call  for  speculation.  The  future  was 
meaningless  to  me  ;  I  regretted  I  had  not  elected  to 
die  in  harness.  As  idle  old  men  must,  I  lived  in  the 
past.  I  went  over  and  over  again  my  ancient  exploits; 
I  re-read  my  book.  And  as  I  thought  and  thought, 
away  from  the  excitement  of  the  actual  hunt,  and 
seeing  the  facts  in  a  truer  perspective,  so  it  grew 
daily  clearer  to  me  that  criminals  were  more  fools 
than  rogues.  Every  crime  I  had  traced,  however 
cleverly  perpetrated,  was  from  the  point  of  view  of 
penetrability  a  weak  failure.  Traces  and  trails  were 
left  on  all  sides  —  ragged  edges,  rough-hewn  corners; 
in  short,  the  job  was  botched,  artistic  completeness 
unattained.  To  the  vulgar,  my  feats  might  seem 
marvellous  —  the  average  man  is  mystified  to  grasp 
how  you  detect  the  letter  '  e '  in  a  simple  cryptogram 
—  to  myself  they  were  as  commonplace  as  the  crimes 
they  unveiled.  To  me  now,  with  my  lifelong  study 
of  the  science  of  evidence,  it  seemed  possible  to 
commit  not  merely  one  but  a  thousand  crimes  that 
should  be  absolutely  undiscoverable.  And  yet  crimi- 
nals would  go  on  sinning,  and  giving  themselves 
away,  in  the  same  old  grooves  —  no  originality,  no 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  303 

dash,  no  individual  insight,  no  fresh  conception  !  One 
would  imagine  there  were  an  Academy  of  crime  with 
forty  thousand  armchairs.  And  gradually,  as  I  pon- 
dered and  brooded  over  the  thought,  there  came  upon 
me  the  desire  to  commit  a  crime  that  should  baffle 
detection.  I  could  invent  hundreds  of  such  crimes, 
and  please  myself  by  imagining  them  done ;  but 
would  they  really  work  out  in  practice  ?  Evidently 
the  sole  performer  of  my  experiment  must  be  my- 
self;  the  subject  —  whom  or  what?  Accident  should 
determine.  I  itched  to  commence  with  murder  —  to 
tackle  the  stiffest  problems  first,  and  I  burned  to 
startle  and  baffle  the  world  —  especially  the  world  of 
which  I  had  ceased  to  be.  Outwardly  I  was  calm, 
and  spoke  to  the  people  about  me  as  usual.  Inwardly 
I  was  on  fire  with  a  consuming  scientific  passion.  I 
sported  with  my  pet  theories,  and  fitted  them  mentally 
on  every  one  I  met.  Every  friend  or  acquaintance  I 
sat  and  gossiped  with,  I  was  plotting  how  to  murder 
without  leaving  a  clue.  There  is  not  one  of  my 
friends  or  acquaintances  I  have  not  done  away  with 
in  thought.  There  is  no  public  man  —  have  no  fear, 
my  dear  Home  Secretary — I  have  not  planned  to 
assassinate  secretly,  mysteriously,  unintelligibly,  un- 
discoverably.  Ah,  how  I  could  give  the  stock  crimi- 
nals points  —  with  their  second-hand  motives,  their 
conventional  conceptions,  their  commonplace  details, 
their  lack  of  artistic  feeling  and  restraint." 

The  crowd  had  again  started  cheering.     Impatient 


304  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

as  the  watchers  were,  they  felt  that  no  news  was 
good  news.  The  longer  the  interview  accorded  by 
the  Home  Secretary  to  the  chairman  of  the  Defence 
Committee,  the  greater  the  hope  his  obduracy  was 
melting.  The  idol  of  the  people  would  be  saved,  and 
"  Grodman  "  and  "Tom  Mortlake  "  were  mingled  in 
the  exultant  plaudits. 

"  The  late  Arthur  Constant,"  continued  the  great 
criminologist,  "  came  to  live  nearly  opposite  me.  I 
cultivated  his  acquaintance  —  he  was  a  lovable  young 
fellow,  an  excellent  subject  for  experiment.  I  do  no: 
know  when  I  have  ever  taken  to  a  man  more.  From 
the  moment  I  first  set  eyes  on  him,  there  was  a 
peculiar  sympathy  between  us.  We  were  drawn  to 
each  other.  I  felt  instinctively  he  would  be  the  man. 
I  loved  to  hear  him  speak  enthusiastically  of  the 
Brotherhood  of  Man  —  I,  who  knew  the  brotherhood 
of  man  was  to  the  ape,  the  serpent,  and  the  tiger 
—  and  he  seemed  to  find  a  pleasure  in  stealing  a 
moment's  chat  with  me  from  his  engrossing  self- 
appointed  duties.  It  is  a  pity  humanity  should  have 
been  robbed  of  so  valuable  a  life.  But  it  had  to  be. 
At  a  quarter  to  ten  on  the  night  of  December  3rd  he 
came  to  me.  Naturally  I  said  nothing  about  this  visit 
at  the  inquest  or  the  trial.  His  object  was  to  consult 
me  mysteriously  about  some  girl.  He  said  he  had 
privately  lent  her  money  —  which  she  was  to  repay  at 
her  convenience.  What  the  money  was  for  he  did 
not  know,  except  that  it  was  somehow  connected  with 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  305 

an  act  of  abnegation  in  which  he  had  vaguely  encour- 
aged her.  The  girl  had  since  disappeared,  and  he 
was  in  distress  about  her.  He  would  not  tell  me  who 
it  was  —  of  course  now,  sir,  you  know  as  well  as  I  it 
was  Jessie  Dymond  —  but  asked  for  advice  as  to  how 
to  set  about  finding  her.  He  mentioned  that  Mort- 
lake  was  leaving  for  Devonport  by  the  first  train  on 
the  next  day.  Of  old  I  should  have  connected  these 
two  facts  and  sought  the  thread  ;  now,  as  he  spoke, 
all  my  thoughts  were  dyed  red.  He  was  suffering 
perceptibly  from  toothache,  and  in  answer  to  my 
sympathetic  inquiries  told  me  it  had  been  allowing 
him  very  little  sleep.  Everything  combined  to  invite 
the  trial  of  one  of  my  favourite  theories.  I  spoke  to 
him  in  a  fatherly  way,  and  when  I  had  tendered  some 
vague  advice  about  the  girl,  I  made  him  promise  to 
secure  a  night's  rest  (before  he  faced  the  arduous 
tram-men's  meeting  in  the  morning)  by  taking  a  sleep- 
ing draught.  I  gave  him  a  quantity  of  sulfonal  in  a 
phial.  It  is  a  new  drug,  which  produces  protracted 
sleep  without  disturbing  digestion,  and  which  I  use 
myself.  He  promised  faithfully  to  take  the  draught ; 
and  I  also  exhorted  him  earnestly  to  bolt  and  bar  and 
lock  himself  in  so  as  to  stop  up  every  chink  or  aper- 
ture by  which  the  cold  air  of  the  winter's  night  might 
creep  into  the  room.  I  remonstrated  with  him  on  the 
careless  manner  he  treated  his  body,  and  he  laughed 
in  his  good-humoured,  gentle  way,  and  promised  to 
obey  me    in    all   things.     And    he    did.     That    Mrs. 


306  THE   BIG   BOW  MYSTERY 

Drabdump,  failing  to  rouse  him,  would  cry  '  Murder ! ' 
I  took  for  certain.  She  is  built  that  way.  As  even 
Sir  Charles  Brown-Harland  remarked,  she  habitually 
takes  her  prepossessions  for  facts,  her  inferences 
for  observations.  She  forecasts  the  future  in  grey. 
Most  women  of  Mrs.  Drabdump's  class  would  have 
behaved  as  she  did.  She  happened  to  be  a  peculiarly 
favourable  specimen  for  working  on  by  '  suggestion,' 
but  I  would  have  undertaken  to  produce  the  same 
effect  on  almost  any  woman.  The  key  to  the  Big 
Bow  Mystery  is  feminine  psychology.  The  only 
uncertain  link  in  the  chain  was,  Would  Mrs.  Drab- 
dump rush  across  to  get  me  to  break  open  the 
door  ?  Women  always  rush  for  a  man.  I  was  well- 
nigh  the  nearest,  and  certainly  the  most  authoritative 
man  in  the  street,  and  I  took  it  for  granted  she  would." 

"But  suppose  she  hadn't?"  the  Home  Secretary 
could  not  help  asking. 

"Then  the  murder  wouldn't  have  happened,  that's 
all.  In  due  course  Arthur  Constant  would  have 
awoke,  or  somebody  else  breaking  open  the  door 
would  have  found  him  sleeping;  no  harm  done, 
nobody  any  the  wiser.  I  could  hardly  sleep  myself 
that  night.  The  thought  of  the  extraordinary  crime 
I  was  about  to  commit  —  a  burning  curiosity  to  know 
whether  Wimp  would  detect  the  modus  operandi  — 
the  prospect  of  sharing  the  feelings  of  murderers 
with  whom  I  had  been  in  contact  all  my  life  without 
being  in  touch  with  the  terrible  joys  of  their  inner 
life  —  the  fear   lest  I   should  be  too    fast   asleep   to 


THE   BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  307 

hear  Mrs.  Drabdump's  knock  —  these  things  agitated 
me  and  disturbed  my  rest.  I  lay  tossing  on  my  bed, 
planning  every  detail  of  poor  Constant's  end.  The 
hours  dragged  slowly  and  wretchedly  on  towards  the 
misty  dawn.  I  was  racked  with  suspense.  Was  I 
to  be  disappointed  after  all  ?  At  last  the  welcome 
sound  came  —  the  rat-tat-tat  of  murder.  The  echoes 
of  that  knock  are  yet  in  my  ear.  '  Come  over  and 
kill  him  ! '  I  put  my  night-capped  head  out  of  the 
window  and  told  her  to  wait  for  me.  I  dressed 
hurriedly,  took  my  razor,  and  went  across  to  1 1 
Glover  Street.  As  I  broke  open  the  door  of  the 
bedroom  in  which  Arthur  Constant  lay  sleeping,  his 
head  resting  on  his  hands,  I  cried,  '  My  God ! '  as  if 
I  saw  some  awful  vision.  A  mist  as  of  blood  swam 
before  Mrs.  Drabdump's  eyes.  She  cowered  back, 
for  an  instant  (I  divined  rather  than  saw  the  action) 
she  shut  off  the  dreaded  sight  with  her  hands.  In 
that  instant  I  had  made  my  cut — precisely,  scientifi- 
cally—  made  so  deep  a  cut  and  drawn  out  the  weapon 
so  sharply  that  there  was  scarce  a  drop  of  blood  on 
it ;  then  there  came  from  the  throat  a  jet  of  blood 
which  Mrs.  Drabdump,  conscious  only  of  the  horrid 
gash,  saw  but  vaguely.  I  covered  up  the  face 
quickly  with  a  handkerchief  to  hide  any  convulsive 
distortion.  But  as  the  medical  evidence  (in  this 
detail  accurate)  testified,  death  was  instantaneous. 
I  pocketed  the  razor  and  the  empty  sulfonal  phial. 
With  a  woman-  like  Mrs.  Drabdump  to  watch  me,  I 


308  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

could  do  anything  I  pleased.  I  got  her  to  draw  my 
attention  to  the  fact  that  both  the  windows  were 
fastened.  Some  fool,  by  the  by,  thought  there  was 
a  discrepancy  in  the  evidence  because  the  police 
found  only  one  window  fastened,  forgetting  that,  in 
my  innocence  I  took  care  not  to  refasten  the  window 
I  had  opened  to  call  for  aid.  Naturally  I  did  not 
call  for  aid  before  a  considerable  time  had  elapsed. 
There  was  Mrs.  Drabdump  to  quiet,  and  the  excuse 
of  making  notes  —  as  an  old  hand.  My  object  was 
to  gain  time.  I  wanted  the  body  to  be  fairly  cold 
and  stiff  before  being  discovered,  though  there  was 
not  much  danger  here ;  for,  as  you  saw  by  the 
medical  evidence,  there  is  no  telling  the  time  of 
death  to  an  hour  or  two.  The  frank  way  in  which 
I  said  the  death  was  very  recent  disarmed  all  sus- 
picion, and  even  Dr.  Robinson  was  unconsciously 
worked  upon,  in  adjudging  the  time  of  death,  by  the 
knowledge  (query  here,  Mr.  Templeton)  that  it  had 
preceded  my  advent  on  the  scene. 

"  Before  leaving  Mrs.  Drabdump,  there  is  just  one 
point  I  should  like  to  say  a  word  about.  You  have 
listened  so  patiently,  sir,  to  my  lectures  on  the  science 
of  sciences  that  you  will  not  refuse  to  hear  the  last. 
A  good  deal  of  importance  has  been  attached  to  Mrs. 
Drabdump's  oversleeping  herself  by  half  an  hour. 
It  happens  that  this  ( like  the  innocent  fog  which  has 
also  been  made  responsible  for  much  )  is  a  purely  acci- 
dental and  irrelevant  circumstance.     In  all  works  on 


THE  BIG   BOW  MYSTERY  309 

inductive  logic  it  is  thoroughly  recognised  that  only 
some  of  the  circumstances  of  a  phenomenon  are  of 
its  essence  and  casually  interconnected ;  there  is 
always  a  certain  proportion  of  heterogeneous  accom- 
paniments which  have  no  intimate  relation  whatever 
with  the  phenomenon.  Yet,  so  crude  is  as  yet  the 
comprehension  of  the  science  of  evidence,  that  every 
feature  of  the  phenomenon  under  investigation  is 
made  equally  important,  and  sought  to  be  linked  with 
the  chain  of  evidence.  To  attempt  to  explain  every- 
thing is  always  the  mark  of  the  tyro.  The  fog  and 
Mrs.  Drabdump's  oversleeping  herself  were  mere 
accidents.  There  are  always  these  irrelevant  accom- 
paniments, and  the  true  scientist  allows  for  this  ele- 
ment of  (  so  to  speak  )  chemically  unrelated  detail. 
Even  I  never  counted  on  the  unfortunate  series  of  ac- 
cidental phenomena  which  have  led  to  Mortlake's 
implication  in  a  network  of  suspicion.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  fact  that  my  servant,  Jane,  who  usually 
goes  about  ten,  left  a  few  minutes  earlier  on  the  night 
of  December  3rd,  so  that  she  didn't  know  of  Con- 
stant's visit,  was  a  relevant  accident.  In  fact,  just  as 
the  art  of  the  artist  or  the  editor  consists  largely  in 
knowing  what  to  leave  out,  so  does  the  art  of  the 
scientific  detector  of  crime  consist  in  knowing  what 
details  to  ignore.  In  short,  to  explain  everything  is 
to  explain  too  much.  And  too  much  is  worse  than 
too  little. 

"  To  return  to  my  experiment.    My  success  exceeded 


310  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

my  wildest  dreams.  None  had  an  inkling  of  the 
truth.  The  insolubility  of  the  Big  Bow  Mystery 
teased  the  acutest  minds  in  Europe  and  the  civilised 
world.  That  a  man  could  have  been  murdered  in 
a  thoroughly  inaccessible  room  savoured  of  the  ages 
of  magic.  The  redoubtable  Wimp,  who  had  been 
blazoned  as  my  successor,  fell  back  on  the  theory  of 
suicide.  The  mystery  would  have  slept  till  my  death, 
but  —  I  fear  —  for  my  own  ingenuity.  I  tried  to 
stand  outside  myself,  and  to  look  at  the  crime  with  the 
eyes  of  another,  or  of  my  old  self.  I  found  the  work 
of  art  so  perfect  as  to  leave  only  one  sublimely 
simple  solution.  The  very  terms  of  the  problem 
were  so  inconceivable  that,  had  I  not  been  the  mur- 
derer, I  should  have  suspected  myself,  in  conjunction, 
of  course,  with  Mrs.  Drabdump.  The  first  persons 
to  enter  the  room  would  have  seemed  to  me  guilty. 
I  wrote  at  once  (in  a  disguised  hand  and  over  the 
signature  of  "  One  who  looks  through  his  own  spec- 
tacles " )  to  the  Pell  Mell  Press  to  suggest  this. 
By  associating  myself  thus  with  Mrs.  Drabdump  I 
made  it  difficult  for  people  to  dissociate  the  two  who 
entered  the  room  together.  To  dash  a  half-truth  in 
the  world's  eyes  is  the  surest  way  of  blinding  it 
altogether.  This  pseudonymous  letter  of  mine  I 
contradicted  (in  my  own  name)  the  next  day,  and  in 
the  course  of  the  long  letter  which  I  was  tempted  to 
write,  I  adduced  fresh  evidence  against  the  theory 
of  suicide.     I  was  disgusted  with  the  open  verdict, 


THE   BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  311 

and  wanted  men  to  be  up  and  doing  and  trying  to 
find  me  out.     I  enjoyed  the  hunt  more. 

"  Unfortunately,  Wimp,  set  on  the  chase  again  by 
my  own  letter,  by  dint  of  persistent  blundering, 
blundered  into  a  track  which  —  by  a  devilish  tissue  of 
coincidences  I  had  neither  foreseen  nor  dreamt  of 
—  seemed  to  the  world  the  true.  Mortlake  was 
arrested  and  condemned.  Wimp  had  apparently 
crowned  his  reputation.  This  was  too  much.  I  had 
taken  all  this  trouble  merely  to  put  a  feather  in 
Wimp's  cap,  whereas  I  had  expected  to  shake  his 
reputation  by  it.  It  was  bad  enough  that  an  inno- 
cent man  should  suffer ;  but  that  Wimp  should 
achieve  a  reputation  he  did  not  deserve,  and  over- 
shadow all  his  predecessors  by  dint  of  a  colossal 
mistake,  this  seemed  to  me  intolerable.  I  have 
moved  heaven  and  earth  to  get  the  verdict  set  aside, 
and  to  save  the  prisoner ;  I  have  exposed  the  weak- 
ness of  the  evidence  ;  I  have  had  the  world  searched 
for  the  missing  girl ;  I  have  petitioned  and  agitated. 
In  vain.  I  have  failed.  Now  I  play  my  last  card. 
As  the  overweening  Wimp  could  not  be  allowed  to 
go  down  to  posterity  as  the  solver  of  this  terrible 
mystery,  I  decided  that  the  condemned  man  might 
just  as  well  profit  by  his  exposure.  That  is  the 
reason  I  make  the  exposure  to-night,  before  it  is  too 
late  to  save  Mortlake." 

"  So  that  is  the  reason  ?  "  said  the  Home  Secretary, 
with  a  suspicion  of  mockery  in  his  tones. 


312  THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY 

"  The  sole  reason." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  a  deeper  roar  than  ever  pene- 
trated the  study. 

"A  Reprieve!  Hooray!  Hooray!"  The  whole 
street  seemed  to  rock  with  earthquake  and  the  names 
of  Grodman  and  Mortlake  to  be  thrown  up  in  a  fiery 
jet.  "  A  Reprieve  !  A  Reprieve  !  "  And  then  the 
very  windows  rattled  with  cheers  for  the  Minister. 
And  even  above  that  roar  rose  the  shrill  voices  of 
the  newsboys,  "  Reprieve  of  Mortlake !  Mortlake 
Reprieved  !  "  Grodman  looked  wonderingly  towards 
the   street.     "How  do  they  know?"    he  murmured. 

"Those  evening  papers  are  amazing,"  said  the 
Minister,  drily.  "  But  I  suppose  they  had  every- 
thing ready  in  type  for  the  contingency."  He  turned 
to  his  secretary. 

"  Templeton,  have  you  got  down  every  word  of 
Mr.  Grodman's  confession  ?  " 

"  Every  word,  sir." 

"Then  bring  in  the  cable  you  received  just  as  Mr. 
Grodman  entered  the  house." 

Templeton  went  back  into  the  outer  room  and 
brought  back  the  cablegram  that  had  been  lying  on 
the  Minister's  writing-table  when  Grodman  came  in. 
The  Home  Secretary  silently  handed  it  to  his  visitor. 
It  was  from  the  Chief  of  Police  of  Melbourne, 
announcing  that  Jessie  Dymond  had  just  arrived  in 
that  city  in  a  sailing  vessel,  ignorant  of  all  that  had 
occurred,  and  had  been  immediately  despatched  back 


THE  BIG  BOW  MYSTERY  313 

to  England,  having  made  a  statement  entirely  corrob- 
orating the  theory  of  the  defence. 

"  Pending  further  inquiries  into  this,"  said  the 
Home  Secretary,  not  without  appreciation  of  the 
grim  humour  of  the  situation  as  he  glanced  at  Grod- 
man's  ashen  cheeks,  "  I  have  reprieved  the  prisoner. 
Mr.  Templeton  was  about  to  despatch  the  messenger 
to  the  governor  of  Newgate  as  you  entered  this  room. 
Mr.  Wimp's  card-castle  would  have  tumbled  to  pieces 
without  your  assistance.  Your  still  undiscoverable 
crime  would  have  shaken  his  reputation  as  you 
intended." 

A  sudden  explosion  shook  the  room  and  blent  with 
the  cheers  of  the  populace.  Grodman  had  shot  him- 
self—  very  scientifically  — in  the  heart.  He  fell  at 
the  Home  Secretary's  feet,  stone  dead. 

Some  of  the  working  men  who  had  been  standing 
waiting  by  the  shafts  of  the  hansom  helped  to  bear 
the  stretcher. 


MERELY    MARY   ANN 


Sometimes  Lancelot's  bell  rang  up  Mrs.  Leadbatter 
herself,  but  far  more  often  merely  Mary  Ann. 

The  first  time  Lancelot  saw  Mary  Ann  she  was 
cleaning  the  steps.  He  avoided  treading  upon  her, 
being  kind  to  animals.  For  the  moment  she  was 
merely  a  quadruped,  whose  head  was  never  lifted 
to  the  stars.  Her  faded  print  dress  showed  like 
the  quivering  hide  of  some  crouching  animal. 
There  were  strange  irregular  splashes  of  pink  in 
the  hide,  standing  out  in  bright  contrast  with  the 
neutral  background.  These  were  scraps  of  the 
original  material  neatly  patched  in. 

The  cold,  damp  steps  gave  Lancelot  a  shudder,  for 
the  air  was  raw.  He  passed  by  the  prostrate  figure 
as  quickly  as  he  could,  and  hastened  to  throw  him- 
self into  the  easy  chair  before  the  red  fire. 

There  was  a  lamp-post  before  the  door,  so  he  knew 
the  house  from  its  neighbours.  Baker's  Terrace  as  a 
whole  was  a  defeated  aspiration  after  gentility.  The 
more  auspicious  houses  were  marked  by  white  stones, 
the  steps  being  scrubbed  and  hearth-stoned  almost 
daily;    the    gloomier   doorsteps    were    black,  except 

314 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  315 

on  Sundays.  Thus  variety  was  achieved  by  houses 
otherwise  as  monotonous  and  prosaic  as  a  batch  of 
fourpenny  loaves.  This  was  not  the  reason  why  the 
little  South  London  side-street  was  called  Baker's 
Terrace,  though  it  might  well  seem  so ;  for  Baker 
was  the  name  of  the  builder,  a  worthy  gentleman 
whose  years  and  virtues  may  still  be  deciphered  on 
a  doddering,  round-shouldered  stone  in  a  deceased 
cemetery  not  far  from  the  scene  of  his  triumphs. 

The  second  time  Lancelot  saw  Mary  Ann  he  did 
not  remember  having  seen  her  before.  This  time 
she  was  a  biped,  and  wore  a  white  cap.  Besides,  he 
hardly  glanced  at  her.  He  was  in  a  bad  temper, 
and  Beethoven  was  barking  terribly  at  the  intruder 
who  stood  quaking  in  the  doorway,  so  that  the 
crockery  clattered  on  the  tea-tray  she  bore.  With 
a  smothered  oath  Lancelot  caught  up  the  fiery  little 
spaniel  and  rammed  him  into  the  pocket  of  his 
dressing-gown,  where  he  quivered  into  silence  like 
a  struck  gong.  While  the  girl  was  laying  his  break- 
fast, Lancelot,  who  was  looking  moodily  at  the 
pattern  of  the  carpet  as  if  anxious  to  improve  upon 
it,  was  vaguely  conscious  of  relief  in  being  spared 
his  landlady's  conversation.  For  Mrs.  Leadbatter 
was  a  garrulous  body,  who  suffered  from  the  delu- 
sion that  small-talk  is  a  form  of  politeness,  and  that 
her  conversation  was  part  of  the  "all  inclusive"  her 
lodgers  stipulated  for.  The  disease  was  hereditary, 
her  father  having  been  a  barber,  and  remarkable  for 


316  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

the  coolness  with  which,  even  as  a  small  boy  whose 
function  was  lathering  and  nothing  more,  he  exchanged 
views  about  the  weather  with  his  victims. 

The  third  time  Lancelot  saw  Mary  Ann  he  noticed 
that  she  was  rather  pretty.  She  had  a  slight,  well- 
built  figure,  not  far  from  tall,  small  shapely  features, 
and  something  of  a  complexion.  This  did  not  dis- 
please him  :  she  was  a  little  aesthetic  touch  amid  the 
depressing  furniture. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Polly,"  he  said  more  kindly. 
"The  little  devil  won't  bite.  He's  all  bark.  Call 
him  Beethoven  and  throw  him  a  bit  of  sugar." 

The  girl  threw  Beethoven  the  piece  of  sugar,  but  did 
not  venture  on  the  name.  It  seemed  to  her  a  long 
name  for  such  a  little  dog.  As  she  timidly  took  the 
sugar  from  the  basin  by  the  aid  of  the  tongs,  Lance- 
lot saw  how  coarse  and  red  her  hand  was.  It  gave 
him  the  same  sense  of  repugnance  and  refrigescence 
as  the  cold,  damp  steps.  Something  he  was  about  to 
say  froze  on  his  lips.  He  did  not  look  at  Mary  Ann 
for  some  days ;  by  which  time  Beethoven  had  con- 
quered his  distrust  of  her,  though  she  was  still  dis- 
trustful of  Beethoven,  drawing  her  skirts  tightly 
about  her  as  if  he  were  a  rat.  What  forced  Mary 
Ann  again  upon  Lancelot's  morose  consciousness  was 
a  glint  of  winter  sunshine  that  settled  on  her  light 
brown  hair.  He  said,  "  By  the  way,  Susan,  tell 
your  mistress  —  or  is  it  your  mother  ?  " 

Mary  Ann  shook  her  head  but  did  not  speak. 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  317 

"Oh,  you  are  not  Miss  Leadbatter  ?  " 

"No;  Mary  Ann." 

She  spoke  humbly ;  her  eyes  were  shy  and  would 
not  meet  his.  He  winced  as  he  heard  the  name, 
though  her  voice  was  not  unmusical. 

"Ah,  Mary  Ann!  and  I've  been  calling  you  Jane 
all  along,  Mary  Ann  what  ?  " 

She  seemed  confused  and  flushed  a  little. 

"  Mary  Ann  !  "  she  murmured. 

"  Merely  Mary  Ann  ? " 

"Yessir." 

He  smiled.  "  Seems  a  sort  of  white  Topsy,"  he 
was  thinking. 

She  stood  still,  holding  in  her  hand  the  table-cloth 
she  had  just  folded.  Her  eyes  were  downcast,  and 
the  glint  of  sunshine  had  leapt  upon  the  long  lashes. 

"  Well,  Mary  Ann,  tell  your  mistress  there  is  a 
piano  coming.  It  will  stand  over  there  —  you'll 
have  to  move  the  sideboard  somewhere  else." 

"  A  piano !  '  Mary  Ann  opened  her  eyes,  and 
Lancelot  saw  that  they  were  large  and  pathetic. 
He  could  not  see  the  colour  for  the  glint  of  sun- 
shine that  touched  them  with  false  fire. 

"  Yes ;  I  suppose  it  will  have  to  come  up  through 
the  window,  these  staircases  are  so  beastly  narrow. 
Do  you  never  have  a  stout  person  in  the  house,  I 
wonder  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  sir.  We  had  a  lodger  here  last  year  as 
was  quite  a  fat  man." 


318  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"  And  did  he  come  up  through  the  window  by  a 
pulley?" 

He  smiled  at  the  image,  and  expected  to  see  Mary 
Ann  smile  in  response.  He  was  disappointed  when 
she  did  not ;  it  was  not  only  that  her  stolidity  made 
his  humour  seem  feeble — he  half  wanted  to  see  how 
she  looked  when  she  smiled. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,"  said  Mary  Ann  ;  "  he  lived  on  the 
ground  floor !  " 

"  Oh  !  "  murmured  Lancelot,  feeling  the  last  sparkle 
taken  from  his  humour.  He  was  damped  to  the  skin 
by  Mary  Ann's  platitudinarian  style  of  conversation. 
Despite  its  prettiness,  her  face  was  dulness  incarnate. 

"  Anyhow,  remember  to  take  in  the  piano  if  I'm 
out,"  he  said  tartly.  "  I  suppose  you've  seen  a  piano 
—  you'll  know  it  from  a  kangaroo  ?  " 

"  Yessir,"  breathed  Mary  Ann. 

"  Oh,  come,  that's  something.  There  is  some 
civilisation  in  Baker's  Terrace  after  all.  But  are  you 
quite  sure  ?  "  he  went  on,  the  teasing  instinct  getting 
the  better  of  him.  "  Because,  you  know,  you've 
never  seen  a  kangaroo." 

Mary  Ann's  face  lit  up  a  little.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  have, 
sir ;  it  came  to  the  village  fair  when  I  was  a  girl." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  "  said  Lancelot,  a  little  staggered ; 
"  what  did  it  come  there  for — to  buy  a  new  pouch  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ;  in  a  circus." 

"  Ah,  in  a  circus.  Then,  perhaps,  you  can  play 
the  piano,  too." 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  319 

Mary  Ann  got  very  red.  "  No,  sir  ;  missus  never 
showed  me  how  to  do  that." 

Lancelot  surrendered  himself  to  a  roar  of  laughter. 
"  This  is  a  real  original,"  he  said  to  himself,  just  a 
touch  of  pity  blending  with  his  amusement. 

"  I  suppose,  though,  you'd  be  willing  to  lend  a 
hand  occasionally  ?  "  he  could  not  resist  saying. 

"  Missus  says  I  must  do  anything  I'm  asked,"  she 
said,  in  distress,  the  tears  welling  to  her  eyes.  And 
a  merciless  bell  mercifully  sounding  from  an  upper 
room,  she  hurried  out. 

How  much  Mary  Ann  did,  Lancelot  never  rightly 
knew,  any  more  than  he  knew  the  number  of  lodgers 
in  the  house,  or  who  cooked  his  chops  in  the  mysteri- 
ous regions  below  stairs.  Sometimes  he  trod  on  the 
toes  of  boots  outside  doors  and  vaguely  connected 
them  with  human  beings,  peremptory  and  exacting 
as  himself.  To  Mary  Ann  each  of  those  pairs  of 
boots  was  a  personality,  with  individual  hours  of 
rising  and  retiring,  breakfasting  and  supping,  going 
out  and  coming  in,  and  special  idiosyncrasies  of  diet 
and  disposition.  The  population  of  5  Baker's  Ter- 
race was  nine,  mostly  bell-ringers.  Life  was  one 
ceaseless  round  of  multifarious  duties  ;  with  six 
hours  of  blessed  unconsciousness,  if  sleep  were 
punctual.  All  the  week  long  Mary  Ann  was  toil- 
ing up  and  down  the  stairs  or  sweeping  them,  mak- 
ing beds  or  puddings,  polishing  boots  or  fire-irons. 
Holidays  were  not  in  Mary  Ann's  calendar  ;  and  if 


320  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

Sunday  ever  found  her  on  her  knees,  it  was  only 
when  she  was  scrubbing  out  the  kitchen.  All  work 
and  no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy ;  it  had  not, 
apparently,  made  Mary  Ann  a  bright  girl. 

The  piano  duly  came  in  through  the  window  like 
a  burglar.  It  was  a  good  instrument,  but  hired. 
Under  Lancelot's  fingers  it  sang  like  a  bird  and 
growled  like  a  beast.  When  the  piano  was  done 
growling  Lancelot  usually  started.  He  paced  up 
and  down  the  room,  swearing  audibly.  Then  he 
would  sit  down  at  the  table  and  cover  ruled  paper 
with  hieroglyphics  for  hours  together.  His  move- 
ments were  erratic  to  the  verge  of  mystery.  He 
had  no  fixed  hours  for  anything;  to  Mary  Ann 
he  was  hopeless.  At  any  given  moment  he  might 
be  playing  on  the  piano,  or  writing  on  the  curiously 
ruled  paper,  or  stamping  about  the  room,  or  sitting 
limp  with  despair  in  the  one  easy  chair,  or  drinking 
whisky  and  water,  or  smoking  a  black  meerschaum, 
or  reading  a  book,  or  lying  in  bed,  or  driving  away 
in  a  hansom,  or  walking  about  Heaven  alone  knew 
where  or  why.  Even  Mrs.  Leadbatter,  whose  expe- 
rience of  life  was  wider  than  Mary  Ann's,  considered 
his  vagaries  almost  unchristian,  though  to  the  highest 
degree  gentlemanly.  Sometimes,  too,  he  sported 
the  swallow-tail  and  the  starched  breast-plate,  which 
was  a  wonder  to  Mary  Ann,  who  knew  that  waiters 
were  connected  only  with  the  most  stylish  establish- 
ments.    Baker's  Terrace  did  not  wear  evening  dress. 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  321 

Mary  Ann  liked  him  best  in  black  and  white.  She 
thought  he  looked  like  the  pictures  in  the  young 
ladies'  novelettes,  which  sometimes  caught  her  eye 
as  she  passed  newsvendors'  shops  on  errands.  Not 
that  she  was  read  in  this  literature  —  she  had  no  time 
for  reading.  But,  even  when  clothed  in  rough  tweeds, 
Lancelot  had  for  Mary  Ann  an  aristocratic  halo ;  in 
his  dressing-gown  he  savoured  of  the  grand  Turk. 
His  hands  were  masterful :  the  fingers  tapering,  the 
nails  pedantically  polished.  He  had  fair  hair,  with 
moustache  to  match  ;  his  brow  was  high  and  white, 
and  his  grey  eyes  could  flash  fire.  When  he  drew 
himself  up  to  his  full  height,  he  threatened  the  gas 
globes.  Never  had  No.  5  Baker's  Terrace  boasted 
of  such  a  tenant.  Altogether,  Lancelot  loomed  large 
to  Mary  Ann ;  she  dazzled  him  with  his  own  boots  in 
humble  response,  and  went  about  sad  after  a  repri- 
mand for  putting  his  papers  in  order.  Her  whole 
theory  of  life  oscillated  in  the  presence  of  a  being 
whose  views  could  so  run  counter  to  her  strongest 
instincts.  And  yet,  though  the  universe  seemed 
tumbling  about  her  ears  when  he  told  her  she  must 
not  move  a  scrap  of  manuscript,  howsoever  wildly  it 
lay  about  the  floor  or  under  the  bed,  she  did  not  for 
a  moment  question  his  sanity.  She  obeyed  him  like 
a  dog ;  uncomprehending,  but  trustful.  But,  after 
all,  this  was  only  of  a  piece  with  the  rest  of  her  life. 
There  was  nothing  she  questioned.  Life  stood  at  her 
bedside  every  morning  in  the  cold  dawn,  bearing  a 


322  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

day  heaped  high  with  duties;  and  she  jumped  cheer- 
fully out  of  her  warm  bed  and  took  them  up  one  by 
one,  without  question  or  murmur.  They  were  life. 
Life  had  no  other  meaning  any  more  than  it  has  for 
the  omnibus  hack,  which  cannot  conceive  existence 
outside  shafts,  and  devoid  of  the  intermittent  flick  of 
a  whip  point.  The  comparison  is  somewhat  unjust; 
for  Mary  Ann  did  not  fare  nearly  so  well  as  the 
omnibus  hack,  having  to  make  her  meals  off  such 
scraps  as  even  the  lodgers  sent  back.  Mrs.  Lead- 
batter  was  extremely  economical,  as  much  so  with 
the  provisions  in  her  charge  as  with  those  she 
bought  for  herself.  She  sedulously  sent  up  re- 
mainders till  they  were  expressly  countermanded. 
Less  economical  by  nature,  and  hungrier  by  habit, 
Mary  Ann  had  much  trouble  in  restraining  herself 
from  surreptitious  pickings.  Her  conscience  was 
rarely  worsted  ;  still  there  was  a  taint  of  dishonesty 
in  her  soul,  else  had  the  stairs  been  less  of  an 
ethical  battle-ground  for  her.  Lancelot's  advent 
only  made  her  hungrier ;  somehow  the  thought  of 
nibbling  at  his  provisions  was  too  sacrilegious  to  be 
entertained.  And  yet — so  queerly  are  we  and  life 
compounded  —  she  was  probably  less  unhappy  at 
this  period  than  Lancelot,  who  would  come  home 
in  the  vilest  of  tempers,  and  tramp  the  room  with 
thunder  on  his  white  brow.  Sometimes  he  and 
the  piano  and  Beethoven  would  all  be  growling  to- 
gether, at  other  times  they  would  all  three  be  mute ; 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  323 

Lancelot  crouching  in  the  twilight  with  his  head  in 
his  hands,  and  Beethoven  moping  in  the  corner, 
and  the  closed  piano  looming  in  the  background 
like  a  coffin  of  dead  music. 

One  February  evening  —  an  evening  of  sleet  and 
mist  —  Lancelot,  who  had  gone  out  in  evening  dress, 
returned  unexpectedly,  bringing  with  him  for  the  first 
time  a  visitor.  He  was  so  perturbed  that  he  forgot 
to  use  his  latch-key,  and  Mary  Ann,  who  opened 
the  door,  heard  him  say  angrily,  "Well,  I  can't 
slam  the  door  in  your  face,  but  I  will  tell  you  in 
your  face  I  don't  think  it  at  all  gentlemanly  of  you 
to  force  yourself  upon  me  like  this." 

"  My  dear  Lancelot,  when  did  I  ever  set  up  to 
be  a  gentleman  ?  You  know  that  was  always  your 
part  of  the  contract."  And  a  swarthy,  thick-set 
young  man  with  a  big  nose  lowered  the  dripping 
umbrella  he  had  been  holding  over  Lancelot,  and 
stepped  from  the  gloom  of  the  street  into  the  fuscous 
cheerfulness  of  the  ill-lit  passage. 

By  this  time  Beethoven,  who  had  been  left  at 
home,  was  in  full  ebullition  upstairs,  and  darted  at 
the  intruder  the  moment  his  calves  appeared.  Bee- 
thoven barked  with  short  sharp  snaps,  as  became  a 
bilious  liver-coloured  Blenheim  spaniel. 

"  Like  master  like  dog,"  said  the  swarthy  young 
man,  defending  himself  at  the  point  of  the  umbrella. 
"  Really  your  animal  is  more  intelligent  than  the 
over-rated  common  or  garden  dog,  which  makes  no 


324  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

distinction  between  people  calling  in  the  small  hours 
and  people  calling  in  broad  daylight  under  the  obvi- 
ous patronage  of  its  own  master.  This  beast  of 
yours  is  evidently  more  in  sympathy  with  its  liege 
lord.  Down,  Fido,  down !  I  wonder  they  allow  you 
to  keep  such  noisy  creatures  —  but  stay  !  I  was 
forgetting  you  keep  a  piano.  After  that,  I  suppose, 
nothing  matters." 

Lancelot  made  no  reply,  but  surprised  Beethoven 
into  silence  by  kicking  him  out  of  the  way.  He  lit 
the  gas  with  a  neatly  written  sheet  of  music  which 
he  rammed  into  the  fire  Mary  Ann  had  been  keeping 
up,  then  as  silently  he  indicated  the  easy  chair. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  swarthy  young  man,  taking 
it.  "  I  would  rather  see  you  in  it,  but  as  there's 
only  one  I  know  you  wouldn't  be  feeling  a  gentle- 
man ;  and  that  would  make  us  both  uncomfortable." 

"  'Pon  my  word,  Peter,"  Lancelot  burst  forth, 
"you're  enough  to  provoke  a  saint." 

"Ton  my  word,  Lancelot,"  replied  Peter,  im- 
perturbably,  "  you're  more  than  enough  to  provoke 
a  sinner.  Why,  what  have  you  to  be  ashamed  of  ? 
You've  got  one  of  the  cosiest  dens  in  London  and 
one  of  the  comfortablest  chairs.  Why,  it's  twice  as 
jolly  as  the  garret  we  shared  at  Leipsic  —  up  the 
ninety  stairs." 

"  We're  not  in  Germany  now.  I  don't  want  to 
receive  visitors,"  answered  Lancelot,  sulkily. 

"  A  visitor  !  you  call  me  a  visitor !     Lancelot,  it's 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  325 

plain  you  were  not  telling  the  truth  when  you  said 
just  now  you  had  forgiven  me." 

"I  had  forgiven  —  and  forgotten  you." 
"  Come,  that's  unkind.  It's  scarcely  three  years 
since  I  threw  up  my  career  as  a  genius,  and  you 
know  why  I  left  you,  old  man.  When  the  first 
fever  of  youthful  revolt  was  over,  I  woke  to  see 
things  in  their  true  light.  I  saw  how  mean  it  was 
of  me  to  help  to  eat  up  your  wretched  thousand 
pounds.  Neither  of  us  saw  the  situation  nakedly  at 
first  —  it  was  sicklied  o'er  with  Quixotic  foolishness. 
You  see,  you  had  the  advantage  of  me.  Your 
governor  was  a  gentleman.  He  says :  '  Very  well, 
if  you  won't  go  to  Cambridge,  if  you  refuse  to  enter 
the  Church  as  the  younger  son  of  a  blue-blooded 
but  impecunious  baronet  should,  and  to  step  into  the 
living  which  is  fattening  for  you,  then  I  must  refuse 
to  take  any  further  responsibility  for  your  future. 
Here  is  a  thousand  pounds ;  it  is  the  money  I  had 
set  aside  for  your  college  course.  Use  it  for  your 
musical  tomfoolery  if  you  insist,  and  then  —  get  what 
living  you  can.'  Which  was  severe  but  dignified, 
unpaternal  yet  patrician.  But  what  does  my  gov- 
ernor do  ?  That  cantankerous,  pig-headed  old  Philis- 
tine —  God  bless  him  !  —  he's  got  no  sense  of  the 
respect  a  father  owes  to  his  offspring.  Not  an 
atom.  You're  simply  a  branch  to  be  run  on  the 
lines  of  the  old  business  or  be  shut  up  altogether. 
And,  by  the  way,  Lancelot,  he  hasn't  altered  a  jot 


326  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

since  those  days  when  —  as  you  remember  —  the 
City  or  starvation  was  his  pleasant  alternative.  Of 
course  I  preferred  starvation  —  one  usually  does  at 
nineteen ;  especially  if  one  knows  there's  a  scion  of 
aristocracy  waiting  outside  to  elope  with  him  to 
Leipsic." 

"  But  you  told  me  you  were  going  back  to  your 
dad,  because  you  found  you  had  mistaken  your 
vocation." 

"  Gospel  truth  also !  My  Heavens,  shall  I  ever 
forget  the  blank  horror  that  grew  upon  me  when  I 
came  to  understand  that  music  was  a  science  more 
barbarous  than  the  mathematics  that  floored  me  at 
school,  that  the  life  of  a  musical  student,  instead  of 
being  a  delicious  whirl  of  waltz  tunes,  was  '  one 
dem'd  grind,'  that  seemed  to  grind  out  all  the  soul 
of  the  divine  art  and  leave  nothing  but  horrid  tech- 
nicalities about  consecutive  fifths  and  suspensions 
on  the  dominant  ?  I  dare  say  most  people  still  think 
of  the  musician  as  a  being  who  lives  in  an  enchanted 
world  of  sound,  rather  than  as  a  person  greatly  oc- 
cupied with  tedious  feats  of  penmanship;  just  as  I 
myself  still  think  of  a  prima  ballerina  not  as  a 
hard-working  gymnast  but  as  a  fairy,  whose  ex- 
istence is  all  bouquets  and  lime-light." 

"  But  you  had  a  pretty  talent  for  the  piano,"  said 
Lancelot,  in  milder  accents.  "  No  one  forced  you 
to  learn  composition.  You  could  have  learnt  anything 
for  the   paltry   fifteen   pounds  exacted   by  the   Con- 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  327 

servatoire  —  from    the    German    flute   to    the    grand 
organ  ;  from  singing  to  scoring  band  parts." 

"  No,  thank  you.  Ant  Cczsar  aut  nihil.  You 
remember  what  I  always  used  to  say,  '  Either  Bee- 
thoven— ' 

(The  spaniel  pricked  up  his  ears)  — 
'or  bust.'  If  I  could  not  be  a  great  musician  it  was 
hardly  worth  while  enduring  the  privations  of  one, 
especially  at  another  man's  expense.  So  I  did  the 
Prodigal  Son  dodge,  as  you  know,  and  out  of  the 
proceeds  sent  you  my  year's  exes  in  that  cheque 
you  with  your  damnable  pride  sent  me  back  again. 
And  now,  old  fellow,  that  I  have  you  face  to  face  at 
last,  can  you  offer  the  faintest  scintilla  of  a  shadow 
of  a  reason  for  refusing  to  take  that  cheque  ?  No, 
you  can't !  Nothing  but  simple  beastly  stuckuppish- 
ness.  I  saw  through  you  at  once ;  all  your  heroics 
were  a  fraud.  I  was  not  your  friend,  but  your  protege 
—  something  to  practise  your  chivalry  on.  You 
dropped  your  cloak,  and  I  saw  your  feet  of  clay.  Well, 
I  tell  you  straight,  I  made  up  my  mind  at  once  to  be 
bad  friends  with  you  for  life ;  only  when  I  saw  your 
fiery  old  phiz  at  Brahmson's  I  felt  a  sort  of  some- 
thing tugging  inside  my  greatcoat  like  a  thief  after 
my  pocket-book,  and  I  kinder  knew,  as  the  Americans 
say,  that  in  half  an  hour  I  should  be  sitting  beneath 
your  hospitable  roof." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  —  you  will  have  some  whisky  ?  " 
He  rang  the  bell  violently. 


328  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"  Don't  be  a  fool  —  you  know  I  didn't  mean  that. 
Well,  don't  let  us  quarrel.  I  have  forgiven  you  for 
your  youthful  bounty,  and  you  have  forgiven  me  for 
chucking  it  up  ;  and  now  we  are  going  to  drink  to  the 
Vaterland"  he  added,  as  Mary  Ann  appeared  with 
suspicious  alacrity. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  went  on,  when  they  had  taken 
the  first  sip  of  renewed  amity  dissolved  in  whisky,  "  I 
think  I  showed  more  musical  soul  than  you  in  refus- 
ing to  trammel  my  inspiration  with  the  dull  rules 
invented  by  fools.  I  suppose  you  have  mastered 
them  all,  eh  ?  "  He  picked  up  some  sheets  of  manu- 
script. "  Great  Scot !  How  you  must  have  schooled 
yourself  to  scribble  all  this  —  you,  with  your  restless 
nature  —  full  scores,  too !  I  hope  you  don't  offer 
this  sort  of  thing  to   Brahmson." 

"  I  certainly  went  there  with  that  intention,"  ad- 
mitted Lancelot.  "  I  thought  I'd  catch  Brahmson 
himself  in  the  evening —  he's  never  in  when  I  call  in 
the  morning." 

Peter  groaned. 

"  Quixotic  as  ever !  You  can't  have  been  long  in 
London  then  ?  " 

"A  year." 

"I  suppose  you'd  jump  down  my  throat  if  I  were 
to  ask  you  how  much  is  left  of  that — "  he  hesi- 
tated, then  turned  the  sentence  facetiously  —  "  of 
those  twenty  thousand  shillings  you  were  cut  off 
with  ? " 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  329 

"  Let  this  vile  den  answer." 

"  Don't  disparage  the  den  ;  it's  not  so  bad." 

"  You  are  right  —  I  may  come  to  worse.  I've  been 
an  awful  ass.  You  know  how  lucky  I  was  while  at 
the  Conservatoire — no,  you  don't.  How  should  you  ? 
Well,  I  carried  off  some  distinctions  and  a  lot  of 
conceit,  and  came  over  here  thinking  Europe  would 
be  at  my  feet  in  a  month.  I  was  only  sorry  my 
father  died  before  I  could  twit  him  with  my  triumph. 
That's  candid,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"Yes;  you're  not  such  a  prig  after  all,"  mused 
Peter.  "  I  saw  the  old  man's  death  in  the  paper  — 
your  brother  Lionel  became  the  bart." 

"  Yes,  poor  beggar,  I  don't  hate  him  half  so  much 
as  I  did.  He  reminds  me  of  a  man  invited  to  dinner 
which  is  nothing  but  flowers  and  serviettes  and  silver 
plate." 

"  I'd  pawn  the  plate,  anyhow,"  said  Peter,  with  a 
little  laugh. 

"  He  can't  touch  anything,  I  tell  you  ;  everything's 
tied  up." 

"  Ah,  well,  he'll  get  tied  up,  too.  He'll  marry  an 
American  heiress." 

"  Confound  him  !  I'd  rather  see  the  house  extinct 
first." 

"  Hoity,  toity  !  She'll  be  quite  as  good  as  any  of 
you." 

"  I  can't  discuss  this  with  you,  Peter,"  said  Lance- 
lot, gently  but  firmly.     "  If  there  is  a  word  I   hate 


330  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

more  than  the  word  heiress,  it  is  the  word  Ameri- 
can." 

"  But  why  ?  They're  both  very  good  words  and 
better  things." 

"  They  both  smack  of  the  most  vulgar  thing  in  the 
world  —  money,"  said  Lancelot,  walking  hotly  about 
the  room.  "  In  America  there's  no  other  standard. 
To  make  your  pile,  to  strike  ile  —  oh,  how  I  shudder 
to  hear  these  idioms !  And  can  any  one  hear  the 
word  heiress  without  immediately  thinking  of  matri- 
mony ?     Phaugh  !     It's  a  prostitution." 

"  What  is  ?     You're  not  very  coherent,  my  friend." 

"Very  well,  I  am  incoherent.  If  a  great  old  family 
can  only  bolster  up  its  greatness  by  alliances  with 
the  daughters  of  oil-strikers,  then  let  the  family  perish 
with  honour." 

"  But  the  daughters  of  oil-strikers  are  sometimes 
very  charming  creatures.  They  are  polished  with 
their  fathers'  oil." 

"  You  are  right.  They  reek  of  it.  Pah  !  I  pray 
to  Heaven  Lionel  will  either  wed  a  lady  or  die  a 
bachelor." 

"  Yes  ;  but  what  do  you  call  a  lady  ? "  persisted 
Peter. 

Lancelot  uttered  an  impatient  snarl,  and  rang  the 
bell  violently.  Peter  stared  in  silence.  Mary  Ann 
appeared. 

"  How  often  am  I'to  tell  you  to  leave  my  matches 
on    the    mantel-shelf  ?  "    snapped    Lancelot.      "  You 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  331 

seem  to  delight  to  hide  them  away,  as  if  I  had  time 
to  play  parlour  games  with  you." 

Mary  Ann  silently  went  to  the  mantel-piece,  handed 
him  the  matches,  and  left  the  room  without  a  word. 

"  I  say,  Lancelot,  adversity  doesn't  seem  to  have 
agreed  with  you,"  said  Peter,  severely.  "That  poor 
girl's  eyes  were  quite  wet  when  she  went  out.  Why 
didn't  you  speak  ?  I  could  have  given  you  heaps 
of  lights,  and  you  might  even  have  sacrificed  another 
scrap  of  that  precious  manuscript." 

"  Well,  she  has  got  a  knack  of  hiding  my  matches 
all  the  same,"  said  Lancelot,  somewhat  shamefacedly. 
"  Besides,  I  hate  her  for  being  called  Mary  Ann. 
It's  the  last  terror  of  cheap  apartments.  If  she  only 
had  another  name  like  a  human  being,  I'd  gladly 
call  her  Miss  something.  I  went  so  far  as  to  ask 
her,  and  she  stared  at  me  in  a  dazed,  stupid,  silly 
way,  as  if  I'd  asked  her  to  marry  me.  I  suppose 
the  fact  is  she's  been  called  Mary  Ann  so  long  and 
so  often  that  she's  forgotten  her  father's  name  —  if 
she  ever  had  any.  I  must  do  her  the  justice,  though, 
to  say  she  answers  to  the  name  of  Mary  Ann  in 
every  sense  of  the  phrase." 

"She  didn't  seem  at  all  bad-looking,  anyway," 
said  Peter. 

"  Every  man  to  his  taste ! "  growled  Lancelot. 
"  She's  &splatt  and  uninteresting  as  a  wooden  sabot." 

"  There's  many  a  pretty  foot  in  a  sabot,"  retorted 
Peter,  with  an  air  of  philosophy. 


332  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"You  think  that's  clever,  but  it's  simply  silly. 
How  does  that  fact  affect  this  particular  sabot?" 

"I've  put  my  foot  in  it,"  groaned  Peter,  comically. 

"  Besides,  she  might  be  a  houri  from  heaven,"  said 
Lancelot ;  "  but  a  houri  in  a  patched  print  frock  —  " 
He  shuddered  and  struck  a  match. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  what  houris  from  heaven 
are,  but  I  have  a  kind  of  feeling  any  sort  of  frock 
would  be  out  of  harmony  — !  " 

Lancelot  lit  his  pipe. 

"  If  you  begin  to  say  that  sort  of  thing  we  must 
smoke,"  he  said,  laughing  between  the  puffs.  "  I 
can  offer  you  lots  of  tobacco  —  I'm  sorry  I've  got 
no  cigars.  Wait  till  you  see  Mrs.  Leadbatter  —  my 
landlady — then  you'll  talk  about  houris.  Poverty 
may  not  be  a  crime,  but  it  seems  to  make  people 
awful  bores.  Wonder  if  it'll  have  that  effect  on 
me?  Ach  Himmel !  how  that  woman  bores  me. 
No,  there's  no  denying  it  —  there's  my  pouch,  old 
man  —  I  hate  the  poor ;  their  virtues  are  only  a 
shade  more  vulgar  than  their  vices.  This  Lead- 
batter  creature  is  honest  after  her  lights — she  sends 
me  up  the  most  ridiculous  leavings  —  and  I  only 
hate  her  the  more  for  it." 

"  I  suppose  she  works  Mary  Ann's  fingers  to  the 
bone  from  the  same  mistaken  sense  of  duty,"  said 
Peter,  acutely.  "Thanks;  think  I'll  try  one  of  my 
cigars.  I  filled  my  case,  I  fancy,  before  I  came  out. 
Yes,  here  it  is;  won't  you  try  one?  " 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  333 

"  No,  thanks,  I  prefer  my  pipe." 

"  It's  the  same  old  meerschaum,  I  see,"  said  Peter. 

"The  same  old  meerschaum,"  repeated  Lancelot, 
with  a  little  sigh. 

Peter  lit  a  cigar,  and  they  sat  and  puffed  in 
silence. 

"  Dear  me !  "  said  Peter,  suddenly ;  "  I  can  almost 
fancy  we're  back  in  our  German  garret,  up  the 
ninety  stairs,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lancelot,  sadly,  looking  round  as  if 
in  search  of  something;  "I  miss  the  dreams." 

"  And  I,"  said  Peter,  striving  to  speak  cheerfully, 
"  I  see  a  dog  too  much." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lancelot,  with  a  melancholy  laugh. 
"  When  you  funked  becoming  a  Beethoven,  I  got 
a  dog  and  called  him   after  you." 

"  What  ?  you  called  him  Peter  ?  " 

"No,  Beethoven!" 

"  Beethoven  !     Really  ?  " 

"  Really.     Here,  Beethoven  !  " 

The  spaniel  shook  himself,  and  perked  his  wee 
nose  up  wistfully  towards   Lancelot's  face. 

Peter  laughed,  with  a  little  catch  in  his  voice. 
He  didn't  know  whether  he  was  pleased,  or  touched, 
or  angry. 

"  You  started  to  tell  me  about  those  twenty  thou- 
sand shillings,"  he  said. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  ?  On  the  expectations  of  my 
triumph,  I  lived  extravagantly,  like  a  fool,  joined  a 


334  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

club,  and  took  up  my  quarters  there.  When  I  be- 
gan to  realise  the  struggle  that  lay  before  me,  I 
took  chambers ;  then  I  took  rooms ;  now  I'm  in 
lodgings.  The  more  I  realised  it,  the  less  rent  I 
paid.  I  only  go  to  the  club  for  my  letters  now.  I 
won't  have  them  come  here.     I'm  living  incognito." 

"  That's  taking  fame  by  the  forelock,  indeed ! 
Then  by  what  name  must  I  ask  for  you  next  time  ? 
For  I'm  not  to  be  shaken  off." 

"  Lancelot." 

"Lancelot  what?  " 

"  Only  Lancelot !     Mr.  Lancelot." 

"  Why,  that's  like  your  Mary  Ann  !  " 

"So  it  is!"  he  laughed,  more  bitterly  than  cor- 
dially ;  "  it  never  struck  me  before.  Yes,  we  are 
a  pair." 

"  How  did  you  stumble  on  this  place  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  stumble.  Deliberate,  intelligent  selection. 
You  see,  it's  the  next  best  thing  to  Piccadilly.  You 
just  cross  Waterloo  Bridge,  and  there  you  are  at  the 
centre,  five  minutes  from  all  the  clubs.  The  natives 
have  not  yet  risen  to  the  idea." 

"You  mean  the  rent,"  laughed  Peter.  "You're 
as  canny  and  careful  as  a  Scotch  professor.  I  think 
it's  simply  grand  the  way  you've  beaten  out  those 
shillings,  in  defiance  of  your  natural  instincts.  I 
should  have  melted  them  years  ago.  I  believe  you 
have  got  some  musical  genius  after  all." 

"You  over-rate  my  abilities,"  said  Lancelot,  with 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  335 

the  whimsical  expression  that  sometimes  flashed 
across  his  face  even  in  his  most  unamiable  moments. 
"  You  must  deduct  the  thalers  I  made  in  exhibitions. 
As  for  living  in  cheap  lodgings,  I  am  not  at  all  cer- 
tain it's  an  economy,  for  every  now  and  again  it 
occurs  to  you  that  you  are  saving  an  awful  lot,  and 
you  take  a  hansom  on  the  strength  of  it." 

"Well,  I  haven't  torn  up  that  cheque  yet  —  " 

"Peter!"  said  Lancelot,  his  flash  of  gaiety  dying 
away,  "  I  tell  you  these  things  as  a  friend,  not  as  a 
beggar.  If  you  look  upon  me  as  the  second,  I  cease 
to  be  the  first." 

"  But,  man,  I  owe  you  the  money  ;  and  if  it  will 
enable  you  to  hold  out  a  little  longer  —  why,  in 
Heaven's  name,  shouldn't  you  —  ?" 

"  You  don't  owe  me  the  money  at  all ;  I  made  no 
bargain  with  you;  I  am  not  a  moneylender." 

"Pack  dicJi  ztim  Henker ! '"  growled  Peter,  with  a 
comical  grimace.  "  Was  fur  a  casuist !  What  a 
swindler  you'd  make !  I  wonder  you  have  the  face 
to  deny  the  debt.  Well,  and  how  did  you  leave  Frau 
Sauer- Kraut  ?  "  he  said,  deeming  it  prudent  to  sheer 
off  the  subject. 

"  Fat  as  a  Christmas  turkey." 

"  Or  a  German  sausage.  The  extraordinary  things 
that  woman  stuffed  herself  with !  —  chunks  of  fat, 
stewed  apples,  Kartoff el  salad  —  all  mixed  up  in  one 
plate,  as  in  a  dustbin." 

"  Don't !     You  make  my  gorge  rise.     Ach  Himtnel ! 


336  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

to  think  that  this  nation  should  be  musical !  O  Music, 
heavenly  maid,  how  much  garlic  I  have  endured  for 
thy  sake!  " 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  laughed  Peter,  putting  down  his 
whisky  that  he  might  throw  himself  freely  back  in  the 
easy  chair  and  roar. 

"  O  that  garlic  !  "  he  said,  panting.  "  No  wonder 
they  smoked  so  much  in  Leipsic.  Even  so  they 
couldn't  keep  the  reek  out  of  the  staircases.  Still, 
it's  a  great  country  is  Germany.  Our  house  does  a 
tremendous  business  in  German  patents." 

"  A  great  country  ?  A  land  of  barbarians  rather. 
How  can  a  people  be  civilised  that  eats  jam  with  its 
meat?" 

"  Bravo,  Lancelot !  You're  in  lovely  form  to-night. 
You  seem  to  go  a  hundred  miles  out  of  your  way  to 
come  the  truly  British.  First  it  was  oil  — now  it's 
jam.  There  was  that  aristocratic  flash  in  your  eye, 
too,  that  look  of  supreme  disdain  which  brings  on 
riots  in  Trafalgar  Square.  Behind  the  patriotic,  the 
national  note,  '  How  can  a  people  be  civilised  that 
eats  jam  with  its  meat?'  I  heard  the  deeper,  the 
oligarchic  accent,  '  How  can  a  people  be  enfran- 
chised that  eats  meat  with  its  fingers  ? '  Ah,  you 
are  right  !  How  you  do  hate  the  poor !  What  bores 
they  are !  You  aristocrats  —  the  products  of  cen- 
turies of  culture,  comfort,  and  cocksureness  —  will 
never  rid  yourselves  of  your  conviction  that  you  are 
the  backbone  of  England  —  no,  not  though  that  back- 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  337 

bone  were  picked  clean  of  every  scrap  of  flesh  by  the 
rats  of  Radicalism." 

"What  in  the  devil  are  you  talking  about  now?" 
demanded  Lancelot.  "  You  seem  to  me  to  go  a  hun- 
dred miles  out  of  your  way  to  twit  me  with  my  pov- 
erty and  my  breeding.  One  would  almost  think  you 
were  anxious  to  convince  me  of  the  poverty  of  jour 
breeding." 

"  Oh,  a  thousand  pardons !  "  ejaculated  Peter, 
blushing  violently.  "  But  good  heavens,  old  chap  ! 
There's  your  hot  temper  again.  You  surely  wouldn't 
suspect  me,  of  all  people  in  the  world,  of  meaning 
anything  personal  ?  I'm  talking  of  you  as  a  class. 
Contempt  is  in  your  blood  —  and  quite  right!  We're 
such  snobs,  we  deserve  it.  Why  d'ye  think  I  ever 
took  to  you  as  a  boy  at  school  ?  Was  it  because  you 
scribbled  inaccurate  sonatas  and  I  had  myself  a 
talent  for  knocking  tunes  off  the  piano  ?  Not  a  bit 
of  it.  I  thought  it  was,  perhaps,  but  that  was  only 
one  of  my  many  youthful  errors.  No,  I  liked  you  be- 
cause your  father  was  an  old  English  baronet,  and 
mine  was  a  merchant  who  trafficked  mainly  in  things 
Teutonic.  And  that's  why  I  like  you  still.  Ton  my 
soul  it  is.  You  gratify  my  historic  sense  —  like  an 
old  building.  You  are  picturesque.  You  stand  to 
me  for  all  the  good  old  ideals  —  including  the  pride 
which  we  are  beginning  to  see  is  deuced  unchristian. 
Mind  you,  it's  a  curious  kind  of  pride  when  one  looks 
into  it.     Apparently  it's  based  on  the  fact  that  your 


338  ,  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

family  has  lived  on  the  nation  for  generations.  And 
yet  you  won't  take  my  cheque  —  which  is  your  own. 
Now  don't  swear — I  know  one  mustn't  analyse 
things,  or  the  world  would  come  to  pieces,  so  I 
always  vote  Tory." 

"Then  I  shall  have  to  turn  Radical,"  grumbled 
Lancelot. 

"  Certainly  you  will,  when  you  have  had  a  little 
more  experience  of  poverty,"  retorted  Peter.  "  There, 
there,  old  man  !  forgive  me.  I  only  do  it  to  annoy 
you.  Fact  is,  your  outbursts  of  temper  attract  me. 
They  are  pleasant  to  look  back  upon  when  the  storm 
is  over.  Yes,  my  dear  Lancelot,  you  are  like  the 
king  you  look  —  you  can  do  no  wrong.  You  are 
picturesque.     Pass  the  whisky." 

Lancelot  smiled,  his  handsome  brow  serene  once 
more.  He  murmured,  "Don't  talk  rot,"  but  inwardly 
he  was  not  displeased  at  Peter's  allegiance,  half 
mocking  though  he  knew  it. 

"  Therefore,  my  dear  chap,"  resumed  Peter,  sip- 
ping his  whisky  and  water,  "to  return  to  our  lambs, 
I  bow  to  your  patrician  prejudices  in  favour  of  forks. 
But  your  patriotic  prejudices  are  on  a  different  level. 
There,  I  am  on  the  same  ground  as  you,  and  I  vow 
I  see  nothing  inherently  superior  in  the  British  com- 
bination of  beef  and  beetroot,  to  the  German  amal- 
gam of  lamb  and  jam." 

"  Damn  lamb  and  jam  !  "  burst  forth  Lancelot, 
adding,  with  his  whimsical  look :  "  There's  rhyme,  as 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  339 

well  as  reason.  How  on  earth  did  we  get  on  this 
tack  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Peter,  smiling.  "  We  were 
talking  about  Frau  Sauer-Kraut,  I  think.  And  did 
you  board  with  her  all  the  time  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  was  always  hungry.  Till  the  last, 
I  never  learnt  to  stomach  her  mixtures.  But  it 
was  really  too  much  trouble  to  go  down  the  ninety 
stairs  to  a  restaurant.  It  was  much  easier  to  be 
hungry." 

"  And  did  you  ever  get  a  reform  in  the  hours  of 
washing  the  floor  ?  " 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  No,  they  always  waited  till  I  was 
going  to  bed.  I  suppose  they  thought  I  liked  damp. 
They  never  got  over  my  morning  tub,  you  know. 
And  that,  too,  sprang  a  leak  after  you  left,  and 
helped  spontaneously  to  wash  the  floor." 

"  Shows  the  fallacy  of  cleanliness,"  said  Peter, 
"and  the  inferiority  of  British  ideals.  They  never 
bathed  in  their  lives,  yet  they  looked  the  pink  of 
health." 

"  Yes,  —  their  complexion  was  high,  —  like  the 
fish." 

"  Ha !  ha  !  Yes,  the  fish  !  That  was  a  great 
luxury,  I  remember.     About  once  a  month." 

"  Of  course,  the  town  is  so  inland,"  said  Lancelot. 

"I  see — it  took  such  a  long  time  coming.  Ha! 
ha !  ha  !  And  the  Herr  Professor  —  is  he  still  a 
bachelor  ? " 


340  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

As  the  Herr  Professor  was  a  septuagenarian  and 
a  misogamist,  even  in  Peter's  time,  his  question 
tickled  Lancelot.  Altogether  the  two  young  men 
grew  quite  jolly,  recalling  a  hundred  oddities,  and  re- 
knitting  their  friendship  at  the  expense  of  the  Father- 
land. 

"  But  was  there  ever  a  more  madcap  expedition 
than  ours?  "  exclaimed  Peter.  "  Most  boys  start  out 
to  be  pirates  —  " 

"  And  some  do  become  music-publishers,"  Lancelot 
finished  grimly,  suddenly  reminded  of  a  grievance. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  Poor  fellow!"  laughed  Peter. 
"  Then  you  have  found  them  out  already." 

"  Does  any  one  ever  find  them  in  ?  "  flashed  Lance- 
lot. "  I  suppose  they  do  exist  and  are  occasionally 
seen  of  mortal  eyes.  I  suppose  wives  and  friends 
and  mothers  gaze  on  them  with  no  sense  of  special 
privilege,  unconscious  of  their  invisibility  to  the 
profane  eyes  of  mere  musicians." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  the  mere  musicians  are  as 
plentiful  as  niggers  on  the  sea-shore.  A  publisher 
might  spend  his  whole  day  receiving  regiments  of 
unappreciated  geniuses.  Bond  Street  would  be  im- 
passable. You  look  at  the  publisher  too  much  from 
your  own  standpoint." 

"  I  tell  you  I  don't  look  at  him  from  any  stand- 
point. That's  what  I  complain  of.  He's  encircled 
with  a  prickly  hedge  of  clerks.  '  You  will  hear  from 
us.'      '  It  shall   have    our   best    consideration.       We 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  341 

have  no  knowledge  of  the  Ms.  in  question.'  Yes, 
Peter,  two  valuable  quartets  have  I  lost,  messing 
about  with  these  villains." 

"  I  tell  you  what.  I'll  give  you  an  introduction  to 
Brahmson.     I  know  him  —  privately." 

"  No,  thank  you,  Peter." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  you  know  him." 

"  I  couldn't  give  you  an  introduction  if  I  didn't. 
This  is  silly  of  you,  Lancelot." 

"  If  Brahmson  can't  see  any  merits  in  my  music,  I 
don't  want  you  to  open  his  eyes.  I'll  stand  on  my 
own  bottom.  And  what's  more,  Peter,  I  tell  you 
once  for  all"  —  his  voice  was  low  and  menacing  — 
"if  you  try  any  anonymous  dens  ex  machind  tricks 
on  me  in  some  sly,  roundabout  fashion,  don't  you 
flatter  yourself  I  shan't  recognise  your  hand.  I 
shall,  and,  by  God,  it  shall  never  grasp  mine  again." 

"  I  suppose  you  think  that's  very  noble  and 
sublime,"  said  Peter,  coolly.  "You  don't  suppose 
if  I  could  do  you  a  turn  I'd  hesitate  for  fear  of  ex- 
communication ?  I  know  you're  like  Beethoven 
there  —  your  bark  is  worse  than  your  bite." 

"  Very  well ;  try.  You'll  find  my  teeth  nastier 
than  you  bargain  for." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  try.  If  you  want  to  go  to  the 
dogs  —  go.  Why  should  I  put  out  a  hand  to  stop 
you  t 

These  amenities  having  reestablished  them  in  their 


342  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

mutual  esteem,  they  chatted  lazily  and  spasmodically 
till  past  midnight,  with  more  smoke  than  fire  in  the 
conversation. 

At  last  Peter  began  to  go,  and  in  course  of  time 
actually  did  take  up  his  umbrella.  Not  long  after, 
Lancelot  conducted  him  softly  down  the  dark,  silent 
stairs,  holding  his  bedroom  candle-stick  in  his  hand, 
for  Mrs.  Leadbatter  always  turned  out  the  hall  lamp 
on  her  way  to  bed.  The  old  phrases  came  to  the 
young  men's  lips  as  their  hands  met  in  a  last  hearty 
grip. 

"  Lebt  woJil  /"  said  Lancelot. 

"  Anf  Wicdersehcn  !  "  replied  Peter,  threateningly. 

Lancelot  stood  at  the  hall  door  looking  for  a 
moment  after  his  friend  —  the  friend  he  had  tried 
to  cast  out  of  his  heart  as  a  recreant.  The  mist 
had  cleared  —  the  stars  glittered  countless  in  the 
frosty  heaven  ;  a  golden  crescent-moon  hung  low  ; 
the  lights  and  shadows  lay  almost  poetically  upon  the 
little  street.  A  rush  of  tender  thoughts  whelmed 
the  musician's  soul.  He  saw  again  the  dear  old 
garret,  up  the  ninety  stairs,  in  the  Hotel  Cologne, 
where  he  had  lived  with  his  dreams  ;  he  heard  the 
pianos  and  violins  going  in  every  room  in  happy 
incongruity,  publishing  to  all  the  prowess  of  the 
players  ;  dirty,  picturesque  old  Leipsic  rose  before 
him ;  he  was  walking  again  in  the  Hainstrasse,  in 
the  shadow  of  the  quaint,  tall  houses.  Yes,  life  was 
sweet  after  all ;    he  was  a  coward  to   lose  heart  so 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  343 

soon  ;  fame  would  yet  be  his ;  fame  and  love  —  the 
love  of  a  noble  woman  that  fame  earns ;  some 
gracious  creature,  breathing  sweet  refinements,  cra- 
dled in  an  ancient  home,  such  as  he  had  left  for 
ever. 

The  sentimentality  of  the  Fatherland  seemed  to 
have  crept  into  his  soul ;  a  divinely  sweet,  sad  melody 
was  throbbing  in  his  brain.  How  glad  he  was  he 
had  met  Peter  again  ! 

From  a  neighbouring  steeple  came  a  harsh,  res- 
onant clang,    "  One." 

It  roused  him  from  his  dream.  He  shivered  a 
little,  closed  the  door,  bolted  it  and  put  up  the 
chain,  and  turned,  half  sighing,  to  take  up  his  bed- 
room candle  again.  Then  his  heart  stood  still  for 
a  moment.  A  figure  —  a  girl's  figure  —  was  coming 
towards  him  from  the  kitchen  stairs.  As  she  came 
into  the  dim  light  he  saw  that  it  was  merely  Mary 
Ann. 

She  looked  half  drowsed.  Her  cap  was  off,  her 
hair  tangled  loosely  over  her  forehead.  In  her  dis- 
array she  looked  prettier  than  he  had  ever  remem- 
bered her.  There  was  something  provoking  about 
the  large,  dreamy  eyes,  the  red  lips  that  parted  at  the 
unexpected  sight  of  him. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  he  cried.  "  Not  gone  to  bed 
yet  ? " 

"  No,  sir.  I  had  to  stay  up  to  wash  up  a  lot  of 
crockery.     The  second  floor  front  had  some  friends 


344  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

to  supper  late.  Missus  says  she  won't  stand  it 
again." 

"Poor  thing!"  He  patted  her  soft  cheek  —  it 
grew  hot  and  rosy  under  his  fingers,  but  was  not 
withdrawn.  Mary  Ann  made  no  sign  of  resentment. 
In  his  mood  of  tenderness  to  all  creation  his  rough 
words  to  her  recurred  to  him. 

"  You  mustn't  mind  what  I  said  about  the 
matches,"  he  murmured.  "When  I  am  in  a  bad  tem- 
per I  say  anything.  Remember  now  for  the  future, 
will  you  ?  " 

"  Yessir." 

Her  face  —  its  blushes  flickered  over  strangely 
by  the  candle-light  —  seemed  to  look  up  at  him  invit- 
ingly. 

"  That's  a  good  girl."  And  bending  down  he 
kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

"  Good  night,"  he  murmured. 

Mary  Ann  made  some  startled,  gurgling  sound  in 
reply. 

Five  minutes  afterwards  Lancelot  was  in  bed, 
denouncing  himself  as  a  vulgar  beast. 

"  I  must  have  drunk  too  much  whisky,"  he  said  to 
himself,  angrily.  "  Good  heavens !  Fancy  sinking 
to  Mary  Ann.  If  Peter  had  only  seen  —  There 
was  infinitely  more  poetry  in  that  red-cheeked 
Madchen,  and  yet  I  never  —  It  is  true  —  there 
is  something  sordid  about  the  atmosphere  that  subtly 
permeates  you,   that  drags  you   down  to  it.     Mary 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  345 

Ann  !  A  transpontine  drudge  !  whose  lips  are  fresh 
from  the  coalman's  and  the  butcher's.     Phaugh  !  ' 

The  fancy  seized  hold  of  his  imagination.  He 
could  not  shake  it  off,  he  could  not  sleep  till  he 
had  got  out  of  bed  and  sponged  his  lips  vigor- 
ously. 

Meanwhile  Mary  Ann  was  lying  on  her  bed, 
dressed,  doing  her  best  to  keep  her  meaningless, 
half-hysterical  sobs  from  her  mistress's  keen  ear. 

II 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Mary  Ann  came  so 
prominently  into  the  centre  of  Lancelot's  conscious- 
ness again.  She  remained  somewhere  in  the  outer 
periphery  of  his  thought  —  nowhere  near  the  bull's- 
eye,  so  to  speak — as  a  vague  automaton  that  worked 
when  he  pulled  a  bell-rope.  Infinitely  more  important 
things  were  troubling  him  ;  the  visit  of  Peter  had 
somehow  put  a  keener  edge  on  his  blunted  self-con- 
fidence ;  he  had  started  a  grand  opera,  and  worked 
at  it  furiously  in  all  the  intervals  left  him  by  his 
engrossing  pursuit  after  a  publisher.  Sometimes  he 
would  look  up  from  his  hieroglyphics  and  see  Mary 
Ann  at  his  side  surveying  him  curiously,  and  then 
he  would  start,  and  remember  he  had  rung  her  up, 
and  try  to  remember  what  for.  And  Mary  Ann 
would  turn  red,  as  if  the  fault  was  hers. 

But  the  publisher  was  the  one  thing  that  was  never 
out  of  Lancelot's  mind,   though  he  drove  Lancelot 


346  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

himself  nearly  out  of  it.  He  was  like  an  arrow  stuck 
in  the  aforesaid  bull's-eye,  and,  the  target  being  con- 
scious, he  rankled  sorely.  Lancelot  discovered  that 
the  publisher  kept  a  "  musical  adviser,"  whose  advice 
appeared  to  consist  of  the  famous  monosyllable, 
"  Don't."  The  publisher  generally  published  all  the 
musical  adviser's  own  works,  his  advice  having 
apparently  been  neglected  when  it  was  most  worth 
taking;  at  least  so  Lancelot  thought,  when  he  had 
skimmed  through  a  set  of  Lancers  by  one  of  these 
worthies. 

"  I  shall  give  up  being  a  musician,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, grimly.     "  I  shall  become  a  musical  adviser." 

Once,  half  by  accident,  he  actually  saw  a  publisher. 
"  My  dear  sir,"  said  the  great  man,  "what  is  the  use 
of  bringing  quartets  and  full  scores  to  me  ?  You 
should  have  taken  them  to  Brahmson  ;  he's  the  very 
man  you  want.  You  know  his  address,  of  course  — 
just  down  the  street." 

Lancelot  did  not  like  to  say  that  it  was  Brahmson's 
clerks  that  had  recommended  him  here;  so  he  re- 
plied, "  But  you  publish  operas,  oratorios,  cantatas  !  " 

"Ah,  yes! — h'm — things  that  have  been  played 
at  the  big  Festivals  —  composers  of  prestige  —  quite 
a  different  thing,  sir,  quite  a  different  thing.  There's 
no  sale  for  these  things  —  none  at  all,  sir  —  public 
never  heard  of  you.  Now,  if  you  were  to  write  some 
songs  —  nice  catchy  tunes  —  high  class,  you  know, 
with  pretty  words  —  " 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  347 

Now  Lancelot  by  this  time  was  aware  of  the  pub- 
lisher's wily  ways  ;  he  could  almost  have  constructed 
an  Ollendorffian  dialogue,  entitled  "  Between  a  Music 
Publisher  and  a  Composer."  So  he  opened  his  port- 
folio again  and  said,  "  I  have  brought  some." 

"Well,  send  —  send  them  in,"  stammered  the  pub- 
lisher, almost  disconcerted.  "  They  shall  have  our 
best  consideration." 

"  Oh,  but  you  might  just  as  well  look  over  them  at 
once,"  said  Lancelot,  firmly,  uncoiling  them.  "  It 
won't  take  you  five  minutes  —  just  let  me  play  one 
to  you.  The  tunes  are  rather  more  original  than  the 
average,  I  can  promise  you ;  and  yet  I  think  they 
have  a  lilt  that —  " 

"  I  really  can't  spare  the  time  now.  If  you  leave 
them,  we  will  do  our  best." 

"  Listen  to  this  bit !  "  said  Lancelot,  desperately. 
And  dashing  at  a  piano  that  stood  handy,  he 
played  a  couple  of  bars.  "That's  quite  a  new 
modulation." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  the  publisher;  "but 
how  do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to  sell  a  thing  with 
an  accompaniment  like  that  ?  Look  here,  and  here  ! 
Why,  it's  all  accidentals." 

"  That's  the  best  part  of  the  song,"  explained 
Lancelot ;  "  a  sort  of  undercurrent  of  emotion  that 
brings  out  the  full  pathos  of  the  words.  Note  the 
elegant  and  novel  harmonies."  He  played  another 
bar  or  two,  singing  the  words  softly. 


348  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"Yes;  but  if  you  think  you'll  get  young  ladies  to 
play  that,  you've  got  a  good  deal  to  learn,"  said  the 
publisher,  gruffly.  "  This  is  the  sort  of  accompaniment 
that  goes  down,"  and  seating  himself  at  the  piano  for 
a  moment  (somewhat  to  Lancelot's  astonishment, 
for  he  had  gradually  formed  a  theory  that  music 
publishers  did  not  really  know  the  staff  from  a  five- 
barred  gate),  he  rattled  off  the  melody  with  his  right 
hand,  pounding  away  monotonously  with  his  left  at 
a  few  elementary  chords. 

Lancelot  looked  dismayed. 

"  That's  the  kind  of  thing  you'll  have  to  produce, 
young  man,"  said  the  publisher,  feeling  that  he  had 
at  last  resumed  his  natural  supremacy,  "  if  you  want 
to  get  your  songs  published.  Elegant  harmonies  are 
all  very  well,  but  who's  to  play  them  ?  " 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say  that  a  musician  in  this 
God-forsaken  country  must  have  no  chords  but  tonics 
and  dominants?"  ejaculated  Lancelot,  hotly. 

"The  less  he  has  of  any  other  the  better,"  said  the 
great  man,  drily.  "  I  haven't  said  a  word  about  the 
melody  itself,  which  is  quite  out  of  the  ordinary  com- 
pass, and  makes  demands  upon  the  singer's  vocalisa- 
tion which  are  not  likely  to  make  a  demand  for  the  song. 
What  you  have  to  remember,  my  dear  sir,  if  you  wish 
to  achieve  success,  is  that  music,  if  it  is  to  sell,  must 
appeal  to  the  average  amateur  young  person.  The 
average  amateur  young  person  is  the  main  prop  of 
music  in  this  country." 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  349 

Lancelot  snatched  up  his  song  and  tied  the  strings 
of  his  portfolio  very  tightly,  as  if  he  were  clenching 
his  lips. 

"  If  I  stay  here  any  longer  I  shall  swear,"  he  said. 
"  Good  afternoon." 

He  went  out  with  a  fire  at  his  heart  that  made  him 
insensitive  to  the  frost  without.  He  walked  a  mile 
out  of  his  way  mechanically,  then,  perceiving  his 
stupidity,  avenged  it  by  jumping  into  a  hansom. 
He  dared  not  think  how  low  his  funds  were  run- 
ning. When  he  got  home  he  forgot  to  have  his 
tea,  crouching  in  dumb  misery  in  his  easy  chair, 
while  the  coals  in  the  grate  faded  like  the  sunset 
from  red  to  grey,  and  the  dusk  of  twilight  deepened 
into  the  gloom  of  night,  relieved  only  by  a  gleam 
from  the  street  lamp. 

The  noise  of  the  door  opening  made  him  look  up. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir.     I  didn't  yer  ye  come  in." 

It  was  Mary  Ann's  timid  accents.  Lancelot's 
head  drooped  again  on  his  breast.  He  did  not 
answer. 

"You've  bin  and  let  your  fire  go  out,  sir." 

"  Don't  bother  !  "  he  grumbled.  He  felt  a  morbid 
satisfaction  in  this  aggravation  of  discomfort,  almost 
symbolic  as  it  was  of  his  sunk  fortunes. 

"  Oh,  but  it'll  freeze  'ard  to-night,  sir.  Let  me 
make  it  up."  Taking  his  sullen  silence  for  consent 
she  ran  downstairs  and  reappeared  with  some  sticks. 
Soon   there  were    signs    of    life,    which    Mary    Ann 


350  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

assiduously  encouraged  by  blowing  at  the  embers 
with  her  mouth.  Lancelot  looked  on  in  dull  apathy, 
but  as  the  fire  rekindled  and  the  little  flames  leapt 
up  and  made  Mary  Ann's  flushed  face  the  one  spot 
of  colour  and  warmth  in  the  cold  dark  room,  Lance- 
lot's torpidity  vanished  suddenly.  The  sensuous 
fascination  seized  him  afresh,  and  ere  he  was  aware 
of  it  he  was  lifting  the  pretty  face  by  the  chin. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  to  be  so  troublesome,  Mary  Ann. 
There,  you  shall  give  me  a  kiss  to  show  you  bear 
no  malice." 

The  warm  lips  obediently  met  his,  and  for  a 
moment  Lancelot  forgot  his  worries  while  he  held 
her  soft  cheek  against  his. 

This  time  the  shock  of  returning  recollection  was 
not  so  violent  as  before.  He  sat  up  in  his  chair, 
but  his  right  arm  still  twined  negligently  round  her 
neck,  the  fingers  patting  the  warm  face.  "  A  fellow 
must  have  something  to  divert  his  mind,"  he  thought, 
"or  he'd  go  mad.  And  there's  no  harm  done — the 
poor  thing  takes  it  as  a  kindness,  I'm  sure.  I  sup- 
pose her  life's  dull  enough.  We're  a  pair."  He  felt 
her  shoulders  heaving  a  little,  as  if  she  were  gulping 
down  something.  At  last  she  said :  "  You  ain't 
troublesome.     I  ought  to  ha'  yerd  ye  come  in." 

He  released  her  suddenly.  Her  words  broke  the 
spell.     The  vulgar  accent  gave  him  a  shudder. 

"  Don't  you  hear  a  bell  ringing  ?  "  he  said  with 
dual  significance. 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  351 

"Nosir,"  said  Mary  Ann,  ingenuously.  "I'd  yer 
it  in  a  moment  if  there  was.  I  yer  it  in  my  dreams, 
I'm  so  used  to  it.  One  night  I  dreamt  the  missus 
was  boxin'  my  yers  and  askin'  me  if  I  was  deaf  and 
I  said  to  'er  —  " 

"Can't  you  say  'her'?"  cried  Lancelot,  cutting 
her  short  impatiently. 

"  Her,"  said  Mary  Ann. 

"  Then  why  do  you  say  '  'er '  ?  " 

"  Missus  told  me  to.  She  said  my  own  way  was 
all  wrong." 

"  Oh,  indeed !  "  said  Lancelot.  "  It's  missus  that 
has  corrupted  you,  is  it  ?  And  pray  what  used  you 
to  say?" 

"She,"  said  Mary  Ann. 

Lancelot  was  taken  aback.     "  She !  "  he  repeated. 

"Yessir,"  said  Mary  Ann,  with  a  dawning  sus- 
picion that  her  own  vocabulary  was  going  to  be 
vindicated ;  "  whenever  I  said  '  she '  she  made  me 
say  '  'er,'  and  whenever  I  said  '  her '  she  made  me 
say  'she.'  When  I  said  'her  and  me'  she  made 
me  say  'me  and  she,'  and  when  I  said  'I  got  it  from 
she,'  she  made  me  say  '  I  got  it  from  '  'er.'  " 

"  Bravo  !  A  very  lucid  exposition,"  said  Lancelot, 
laughing.  "  Did  she  set  you  right  in  any  other 
particulars  ? " 

"  Eessir  —  I  mean  yessir,"  replied  Mary  Ann,  the 
forbidden  words  flying  to  her  lips  like  prisoned  sky- 
larks suddenly  set  free.     "  I  used  to  say,  '  Gie  I  thek 


352  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

there  broom,  oo't  ? '  '  Arten  thee  goin'  to  ? '  '  Her 
did  say  to  I.'     '  I  be  goin'  on  to  bed.'     '  Look  at  — ' 

"  Enough  !  Enough  !  What  a  memory  you've 
got !      Now  I  understand.      You're  a  country  girl." 

"  Eessir,"  said  Mary  Ann,  her  face  lighting  up. 
"  I  mean  yessir." 

"Well,  that  redeems  you  a  little,"  thought  Lance- 
lot, with  his  whimsical  look.  "  So  it's  missus,  is  it, 
who's  taught  you  Cockneyese  ?  My  instinct  was 
not  so  unsound,  after  all.  I  dare  say  you'll  turn  out 
something  nobler  than  a  Cockney  drudge."  He 
finished  aloud,  "  I  hope  you  went  a-milking." 

"  Eessir,  sometimes ;  and  I  drove  back  the  milk- 
trunk  in  the  cart,  and  I  rode  down  on  a  pony  to  the 
second  pasture  to  count  the  sheep  and  the  heifers." 

"Then  you  are  a  farmer's  daughter?" 

"Eessir.  But  my  feyther  —  I  mean  my  father  — 
had  only  two  little  fields  when  he  was  alive,  but  we 
had  a  nice  garden,  with  plum  trees,  and  rose  bushes, 
and  gillyflowers  —  " 

"  Better  and  better,"  murmured  Lancelot,  smiling. 
And,  indeed,  the  image  of  Mary  Ann  skimming  the 
meads  on  a  pony  in  the  sunshine,  was  more  pleasant 
to  contemplate  than  that  of  Mary  Ann  whitening 
the  wintry  steps.  "  What  a  complexion  you  must 
have  had  to  start  with  !  "  he  cried  aloud,  surveying 
the  not  unenviable  remains  of  it.  "  Well,  and  what 
else  did  you  do  ?  " 

Mary  Ann  opened  her  lips.     It  was  delightful  to 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  353 

see  how  the  dull  veil,  as  of  London  fog,  had  been 
lifted  from  her  face  ;  her  eyes  sparkled. 

Then,  "  Oh,  there's  the  ground-floor  bell,"  she 
cried,  moving  instinctively  toward  the  door. 

"  Nonsense;  I  hear  no  bell,"  said  Lancelot. 

"  I  told  you  I  always  hear  it,"  said  Mary  Ann,  hes- 
itating and  blushing  delicately  before  the  critical 
word. 

"Oh,  well,  run  along  then.  Stop  a  moment  —  I 
must  give  you  another  kiss  for  talking  so  nicely. 
There  !  And  — ■  stop  a  moment  —  bring  me  up  some 
coffee,  please,  when  the  ground  floor  is  satisfied." 

"  Eessir  —  I  mean  yessir.  What  must  I  say  ?  "  she 
added,  pausing  troubled  on  the  threshold. 

"  Say,  'Yes,  Lancelot,'  "  he  answered  recklessly. 

"  Yessir,"  and  Mary  Ann  disappeared. 

It  was  ten  endless  minutes  before  she  reappeared 
with  the  coffee.  The  whole  of  the  second  five  min- 
utes Lancelot  paced  his  room  feverishly,  cursing  the 
ground  floor,  and  stamping  as  if  to  bring  down  its 
ceiling.  He  was  curious  to  know  more  of  Mary 
Ann's    history. 

But  it  proved  meagre  enough.  Her  mother  died 
when  Mary  Ann  was  a  child  ;  her  father  when  she 
was  still  a  mere  girl.  His  affairs  were  found  in  hope- 
less confusion,  and  Mary  Ann  was  considered  lucky 
to  be  taken  into  the  house  of  the  well-to-do  Mrs. 
Leadbatter,  of  London,  the  elder  sister  of  a  young 
woman  who  had  nursed  the  vicar's  wife.     Mrs.  Lead- 


354  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

batter  had  promised  the  vicar  to  train  up  the  girl  in 
the  way  a  domestic  should  go. 

"  And  when  I  am  old  enough  she  is  going  to  pay 
me  wages  as  well,"  concluded  Mary  Ann,  with  an  air 
of  importance. 

"Indeed  —  how  old  were  you  when  you  left  the 
village  ?  " 

"  Fourteen. 

"  And  how  old  are  you  now  ?  " 

Mary  Ann  looked  confused.  "  I  don't  quite 
know,"  she  murmured. 

"  Oh,  come,"  said  Lancelot  laughingly  ;  "  is  this 
your  country  simplicity  ?  You're  quite  young  enough 
to  tell  how  old  you  are." 

The  tears  came  into  Mary  Ann's  eyes. 

"I  can't,  Mr.  Lancelot,"  she  protested  earnestly; 
"  I  forgot  to  count —  I'll  ask  missus." 

"  And  whatever  she  tells  you,  you'll  be,"  he  said, 
amused  at  her  unshakable  loyalty. 

"  Yessir,"  said  Mary  Ann. 

"  And  so  you  are  quite  alone  in  the  world  ?  " 

"Yessir  —  but  I've  got  my  canary.  They  sold 
everything  when  my  father  died,  but  the  vicar's  wife 
she  bought  my  canary  back  for  me  because  I  cried  so. 
And  I  brought  it  to  London  and  it  hangs  in  my  bed- 
room. And  the  vicar,  he  was  so  kind  to  me,  he  did 
give  me  a  lot  of  advice,  and  Mrs.  Amersham,  who 
kept  the  chandler's  shop,  she  did  give  me  ninepence, 
all  in  threepenny  bits." 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  355 

"  And  you  never  had  any  brothers  or  sisters  ?  " 

"There  was  our  Sally,  but  she  died  before 
mother." 

"  Nobody  else  ?  " 

"  There's  my  big  brother  Tom  —  but  I  mustn't  tell 
you  about  him." 

"  Mustn't  tell  me  about  him  ?     Why  not  ?  " 

"  He's  so  wicked." 

The  answer  was  so  unexpected  that  Lancelot  could 
not  help  laughing,  and  Mary  Ann  flushed  to  the 
roots  of  her  hair. 

"  Why,  what  has  he  done  ?  "  said  Lancelot,  com- 
posing his  mouth  to  gravity. 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I  was  only  six.  Father  told  me  it 
was  something  very  dreadful,  and  Tom  had  to  run 
away  to  America,  and  I  mustn't  mention  him  any 
more.  And  mother  was  crying,  and  I  cried  because 
Tom  used  to  give  me  tickey-backs  and  go  black- 
berrying  with  me  and  our  little  Sally  ;  and  everybody 
else  in  the  village  they  seemed  glad,  because  they 
had  said  so  all  along,  because  Tom  would  never  go  to 
church,  even  when  a  little  boy." 

"  I  suppose  then  you  went  to  church  regularly  ?" 

"  Yessir.     When  I  was  at  home,  I  mean." 

"  Every  Sunday  ?  " 

Mary  Ann  hung  her  head.  "  Once  I  went 
meechin', "  she  said  in  low  tones.  "  Some  boys 
and  girls  they  wanted  me  to  go  nutting,  and  I  wanted 
to  go  too,  but  I  didn't  know  how  to  get  away,  and 


356  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

they  told  me  to  cough  very  loud  when  the  sermon 
began,  so  I  did,  and  coughed  on  and  on  till  at  last 
the  vicar  glowed  at  father,  and  father  had  to  send  me 
out  of  church." 

Lancelot  laughed  heartily.  "Then  you  didn't  like 
the  sermon." 

"  It  wasn't  that,  sir.  The  sun  was  shining  that 
beautiful  outside,  and  I  never  minded  the  sermon, 
only  I  did  get  tired  of  sitting  still.  But  I  never  done 
it  again  —  our  little  Sally,  she  died  soon  after." 

Lancelot  checked  his  laughter.  "  Poor  little  fool !  " 
he  thought.  Then  to  brighten  her  up  again  he  asked 
cheerily,  "  And  what  else  did  you  do  on  the  farm  ?  " 

"  Oh,  please  sir,  missus  will  be  wanting  me  now." 

"  Bother  missus.  I  want  some  more  milk,"  he 
said,  emptying  the  milk-jug  into  the  slop-basin. 
"  Run  clown  and  get  some." 

Mary  Ann  was  startled  by  the  splendour  of  the 
deed.     She  took  the  jug  silently  and  disappeared. 

When  she  returned  he  said :  "  Well,  you  haven't 
told  me  half  yet.     I   suppose  you  kept  bees  ? " 

"Oh,  yes,  and  I   fed  the  pigs." 

"  Hang  the  pigs !  Let's  hear  something  more 
romantic." 

"  There  was  the  calves  to  suckle  sometimes,  when 
the  mother  died  or  was  sold." 

"Calves!  H'm!  H'm!  Well,  but  how  could  you 
do  that?" 

"  Dipped  my  fingers  in  milk,  and  let  the  calves 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  357 

suck  'em.  The  silly  creatures  thought  it  was  their 
mother's  teats.     Like  this." 

With  a  happy  inspiration  she  put  her  fingers  into 
the  slop-basin,  and  held  them  up  dripping. 

Lancelot  groaned.  It  was  not  only  that  his  im- 
proved Mary  Ann  was  again  sinking  to  earth,  unable 
to  soar  in  the  romantic  aether  where  he  would  fain 
have  seen  her  volant ;  it  was  not  only  that  the  coarse- 
ness of  her  nature  had  power  to  drag  her  down,  it 
was  the  coarseness  of  her  red,  chapped  hands  that 
was  thrust  once  again  and  violently  upon  his  reluctant 
consciousness. 

Then,  like  Mary  Ann,  he  had  an  inspiration. 

"  How  would  you  like  a  pair  of  gloves,  Mary 
Ann  ? " 

He  had  struck  the  latent  feminine.  Her  eyes 
gleamed.  "  Oh,  sir  !  "  was  all  she  could  say.  Then 
a  swift  shade  of  disappointment  darkened  the  eager 
little  face. 

"  But  I  never  goes  out,"  she  cried. 

"I  never  go  out,"  he  corrected,  shuddering. 

"  I  never  go  out,"  said  Mary  Ann,  her  lip  twitching. 

"  That  doesn't  matter.  I  want  you  to  wear  them 
indoors." 

"  But  there's  nobody  to  see  'em  indoors  !  " 

"  I  shall  see  them,"  he  reminded  her. 

"But  they'll  get  dirty." 

"  No  they  won't.  You  shall  only  wear  them  when 
you  come  to  me.     If  I  buy  you  a  nice  pair  of  gloves, 


358  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

will  you  promise  to  put  them  on  every  time  I  ring  for 
you  ? " 

"  But  what'll  missus  say  ?  " 

"  Missus  won't  see  them.  The  moment  you  come 
in,  you'll  put  them  on,  and  just  before  going  out  — 
you'll  take  them  off !     See  !  " 

"  Yessir.  Then  nobody'll  see  me  looking  so  grand 
but  you." 

"That's  it.  And  wouldn't  you  rather  look  grand 
for  me  than  for  anybody  else  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  would,  sir,"  said  Mary  Ann,  earnestly, 
with  a  grateful  little  sigh. 

So  Lancelot  measured  her  wrist,  feeling  her  pulse 
beat  madly.  She  really  had  a  very  little  hand, 
though  to  his  sensitive  vision  the  roughness  of  the 
skin  seemed  to  swell  it  to  a  size  demanding  a  boxing- 
glove.  He  bought  her  six  pairs  of  tan  kid,  in  a  beau- 
tiful cardboard  box.  He  could  ill  afford  the  gift,  and 
made  one  of  his  whimsical  grimaces  when  he  got  the 
bill.  The  young  lady  who  served  him  looked  infi- 
nitely more  genteel  than  Mary  Ann.  He  wondered 
what  she  would  think  if  she  knew  for  whom  he  was 
buying  these  dainty  articles.  Perhaps  her  feelings 
would  be  so  outraged  she  would  refuse  to  participate 
in  the  transaction.  But  the  young  lady  was  happily 
unconscious ;  she  had  her  best  smile  for  the  hand- 
some, aristocratic  young  gentleman,  and  mentioned 
his  moustache  later  to  her  bosom-friend  in  the  next 
department. 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  359 

And  thus  Mary  Ann  and  Lancelot  became  the 
joint  owners  of  a  secret,  and  coplayers  in  a  little 
comedy.  When  Mary  Ann  came  into  the  room,  she 
would  put  whatever  she  was  carrying  on  a  chair, 
gravely  extract  her  gloves  from  her  pocket,  and  draw 
them  on,  Lancelot  pretending  not  to  know  she  was 
in  the  room,  though  he  had  just  said,  "Come  in." 
After  allowing  her  a  minute  he  would  look  up.  In 
the  course  of  a  week  this  became  mechanical,  so  that 
he  lost  the  semi-ludicrous  sense  of  secrecy  which  he 
felt  at  first,  as  well  as  the  little  pathetic  emotion  in- 
spired by  her  absolute  unconsciousness  that  the  per- 
formance was  not  intended  for  her  own  gratification. 
Nevertheless,  though  he  could  now  endure  to  see  Mary 
Ann  handling  the  sugar  tongs,  he  remained  cold  to 
her  for  some  weeks.  He  had  kissed  her  again  in  the 
flush  of  her  joy  at  the  sight  of  the  gloves,  but  after 
that  there  was  a  reaction.  He  rarely  went  to  the 
club  now  (there  was  no  one  with  whom  he  was  in 
correspondence  except  music  publishers,  and  they 
didn't  reply),  but  he  dropped  in  there  once  soon  after 
the  glove  episode,  looked  over  the  papers  in  the 
smoking-room,  and  chatted  with  a  popular  composer 
and  one  or  two  men  he  knew.  It  was  while  the 
waiter  was  holding  out  the  coffee-tray  to  him  that 
Mary  Ann  flashed  upon  his  consciousness.  The 
thought  of  her  seemed  so  incongruous  with  the  sober 
magnificence,  the  massive  respectability  that  sur- 
rounded him,  the  cheerful,  marble  hearth  reddened 


360  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

with  leaping  flame,  the  luxurious  lounges,  the  well- 
groomed  old  gentlemen  smoking  eighteenpenny  che- 
roots, the  suave,  noiseless  satellites,  that  Lancelot  felt 
a  sudden  pang  of  bewildered  shame.  Why,  the  very 
waiter  who  stood  bent  before  him  would  disdain  her. 
He  took  his  coffee  hastily,  with  a  sense  of  personal 
unworthiness.  This  feeling  soon  evaporated,  but  it 
left  lees  of  resentment  against  Mary  Ann  which  made 
him  inexplicable  to  her.  Fortunately,  her  habit  of 
acceptance  saved  her  some  tears,  though  she  shed 
others.  And  there  remained  always  the  gloves. 
When  she  was  putting  them  on  she  always  felt  she 
was  slipping  her  hands  in  his. 

And  then  there  was  yet  a  further  consolation. 

For  the  gloves  had  also  a  subtle  effect  on  Lancelot. 
They  gave  him  a  sense  of  responsibility.  Vaguely 
resentful  as  he  felt  against  Mary  Ann  (in  the  inter- 
vals of  his  more  definite  resentment  against  pub- 
lishers), he  also  felt  that  he  could  not  stop  at  the 
gloves.  He  had  started  refining  her,  and  he  must 
go  on  till  she  was,  so  to  speak,  all  gloves.  He  must 
cover  up  her  coarse  speech,  as  he  had  covered  up  her 
coarse  hands.  He  owed  that  to  the  gloves;  it  was 
the  least  he  could  do  for  them.  So,  whenever  Mary 
Ann  made  a  mistake,  Lancelot  corrected  her.  He 
found  these  grammatical  dialogues  not  uninteresting, 
and  a  vent  for  his  ill-humour  against  publishers  to 
boot.  Very  often  his  verbal  corrections  sounded 
astonishingly  like   reprimands.       Here,  again,   Mary 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  361 

Ann  was  forearmed  by  her  feeling  that  she  deserved 
them.  She  would  have  been  proud  had  she  known 
how  much  Mr.  Lancelot  was  satisfied  with  her  aspi- 
rates, which  came  quite  natural.  She  had  only 
dropped  her  "  h's  "  temporarily,  as  one  drops  coun- 
try friends  in  coming  to  London.  Curiously  enough, 
Mary  Ann  did  not  regard  the  new  locutions  and  pro- 
nunciations as  superseding  the  old.  They  were  a 
new  language ;  she  knew  two  others,  her  mother- 
tongue  and  her  missus's  tongue.  She  would  as  little 
have  thought  of  using  her  new  linguistic  acquire- 
ments in  the  kitchen  as  of  wearing  her  gloves  there. 
They  were  for  Lancelot's  ears  only,  as  her  gloves  were 
for  his  eyes. 

All  this  time  Lancelot  was  displaying  prodigious 
musical  activity,  so  much  so  that  the  cost  of  ruled 
paper  became  a  consideration.  There  was  no  form 
of  composition  he  did  not  essay,  none  by  which  he 
made  a  shilling.  Once  he  felt  himself  the  prey  of 
a  splendid  inspiration,  and  sat  up  all  night  writing 
at  fever  pitch,  surrounded  with  celestial  harmonies, 
audible  to  him  alone ;  the  little  room  resounded  with 
the  thunder  of  a  mighty  orchestra,  in  which  every 
instrument  sang  to  him  individually  —  the  piccolo, 
the  flute,  the  oboes,  the  clarionets,  filling  the  air  with 
a  silver  spray  of  notes  ;  the  drums  throbbing,  the 
trumpets  shrilling,  the  four  horns  pealing  with  long 
stately  notes,  the  trombones  and  bassoons  vibrating, 
the  violins    and  violas  sobbing  in  linked   sweetness, 


302  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

the  'cello  and  the  contra-bass  moaning  their  under- 
chant.  And  then,  in  the  morning,  when  the  first 
rough  sketch  was  written,  the  glory  faded.  He 
threw  down  his  pen,  and  called  himself  an  ass  for 
wasting  his  time  on  what  nobody  would  ever  look  at. 
Then  he  laid  his  head  on  the  table,  overwrought,  full 
of  an  infinite  pity  for  himself.  A  sudden  longing 
seized  him  for  some  one  to  love  him,  to  caress  his 
hair,  to  smooth  his  hot  forehead.  This  mood  passed 
too  ;  he  smoothed  the  slumbering  Beethoven  instead. 
After  a  while  he  went  into  his  bedroom,  and  sluiced 
his  face  and  hands  in  ice-cold  water,  and  rang  the 
bell  for  breakfast. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door  in  response. 

"Come  in!"  he  said  gently  — his  emotions  had 
left  him  tired  to  the  point  of  tenderness.  And  then 
he  waited  a  minute  while  Mary  Ann  was  drawing  on 
her  gloves. 

"  Did  you  ring,  sir  ?  "  said  a  wheezy  voice,  at  last. 
Mrs.  Leadbatter  had  got  tired  of  waiting. 

Lancelot  started  violently  —  Mrs.  Leadbatter  had 
latterly  left  him  entirely  to  Mary  Ann.  "  It's  my 
hastmer,"  she  had  explained  to  him  apologetically, 
meeting  him  casually  in  the  passage.  "  I  can't 
trollop  up  and  down  stairs  as  I  used  to  when  I  fust 
took  this  house  five-an'-twenty  year  ago,  and  pore 
Mr.  Leadbatter  —  "and  here  followed  reminiscences 
long  since  in  their  hundredth  edition. 

"Yes;    let   me    have    some    coffee  —  very    hot  — 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  363 

please,"  said  Lancelot,  less  gently.  The  woman's 
voice  jarred  upon  him ;  and  her  features  were  not 
redeeming. 

"  Lawd,  sir,  I  'ope  that  gas  'asn't  been  burnin'  all 
night,  sir,"  she  said,  as  she  was  going  out. 

"  It  has,"  he  said  shortly. 

"  You'll  hexcoose  me,  sir,  but  I  didn't  bargen  for 
that.  I'm  only  a  pore,  honest,  'ard-workin'  widder, 
and  I  noticed  the  last  gas  bill  was  'eavier  then  hever 
since  that  black  winter  that  took  pore  Mr.  Lead- 
batter  to  'is  grave.  Fair  is  fair,  and  I  shall  'ave  to 
reckon  it  a  hextry,  with  the  rate  gone  up  sevenpence 
a  thousand  and  my  Rosie  leavin'  a  fine  nurse-maid's 
place  in  Bayswater  at  the  end  of  the  month  to  come 
'ome  and  'elp  'er  mother,  'cos  my  hastmer  —  " 

"  Will  you  please  shut  the  door  after  you  ? "  inter- 
rupted Lancelot,  biting  his  lip  with  irritation.  And 
Mrs.  Leadbatter,  who  was  standing  in  the  aperture 
with  no  immediate  intention  of  departing,  could  find 
no  repartee  beyond  slamming  the  door  as  hard  as  she 
could. 

This  little  passage  of  arms  strangely  softened  Lan- 
celot to  Mary  Ann.  It  made  him  realise  faintly 
what  her  life  must  be. 

"  I  should  go  mad  and  smash  all  the  crockery  !  " 
he  cried  aloud.  He  felt  quite  tender  again  towards 
the  uncomplaining  girl. 

Presently  there  was  another  knock.  Lancelot 
growled,  half  prepared  to  renew  the   battle,  and   to 


364  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

give  Mrs.  Leadbatter  a  piece  of  his  mind  on  the  sub- 
ject.    But  it  was  merely  Mary  Ann. 

Shaken  in  his  routine,  he  looked  on  steadily  while 
Mary  Ann  drew  on  her  gloves ;  and  this  in  turn  con- 
fused Mary  Ann.     Her  hand  trembled. 

"  Let  me  help  you,"  he  said. 

And  there  was  Lancelot  buttoning  Mary  Ann's 
glove  just  as  if  her  name  were  Guinevere!  And 
neither  saw  the  absurdity  of  wasting  time  upon  an 
operation  which  would  have  to  be  undone  in  two 
minutes.  Then  Mary  Ann,  her  eyes  full  of  soft 
light,  went  to  the  sideboard  and  took  out  the  prosaic 
elements  of  breakfast. 

When  she  returned,  to  put  them  back,  Lancelot 
was  astonished  to  see  her  carrying  a  cage  —  a  plain 
square  cage,  made  of  white  tin  wire. 

"What's  that?  "  he  gasped. 

"  Please,  Mr.  Lancelot,  I  want  to  ask  you  to  do 
me  a  favour."     She  dropped  her  eyelashes  timidly. 

"  Yes,  Mary  Ann,"  he  said  briskly.  "  But  what 
have  you  got  there  ?  " 

"It's  only  my  canary,  sir.  Would  you — please, 
sir,  would  you  mind?"  —  then  desperately,  "I  want 
to  hang  it  up  here,  sir !  " 

"  Here  ? "  he  repeated  in  frank  astonishment. 
"  Why  ? " 

"Please,  sir,  I  —  I  —  it's  sunnier  here,  sir,  and  I  — 
I  think  it  must  be  pining  away.  It  hardly  ever  sings 
in  my  bedroom." 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  365 

"Well,  but,"  he  began  —  then  seeing  the  tears 
gathering  on  her  eyelids,  he  finished  with  laughing 
good-nature  —  "as  long  as  Mrs.  Leadbatter  doesn't 
reckon  it  an  extra." 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  said  Mary  Ann,  seriously.  "I'll  tell 
her.  Besides,  she  will  be  glad,  because  she  don't 
like  the  canary  —  she  says  its  singing  disturbs  her. 
Her  room  is  next  to  mine,  you  know,  Mr.   Lancelot." 

"But  you  said  it  doesn't  sing  much." 

"Please,  sir,  I  —  I  mean  in  summer,"  explained 
Mary  Ann,  in  rosy  confusion  ;  "and  —  and  —  it'll  soon 
be  summer,  sir." 

"  Sw  —  e-e-t !  "  burst  forth  the  canary,  suddenly,  as 
if  encouraged  by  Mary  Ann's  opinion. 

It  was  a  pretty  little  bird  —  one  golden  yellow  from 
beak  to  tail,  as  though  it  had  been  dipped  in  sun- 
shine. 

"You  see,  sir,"  she  cried  eagerly,  "it's  beginning 
already." 

"Yes,"  said  Lancelot,  grimly;  "but  so  is  Bee- 
thoven." 

"I'll  hang  it  high  up  —  in  the  window,"  said  Mary 
Ann,  "where  the  dog  can't  get  at  it." 

"Well,  I  won't  take  any  responsibilities,"  murmured 
Lancelot,  resignedly. 

"No,  sir,  I'll  attend  to  that,"  said  Mary  Ann, 
vaguely. 

After  the  installation  of  the  canary  Lancelot  found 
himself  slipping  more  and  more   into    a    continuous 


366  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

matter-of-course  flirtation  ;  more  and  more  forgetting 
the  slavey  in  the  candid  young  creature  who  had,  at 
moments,  strange  dancing  lights  in  her  awakened 
eyes,  strange  flashes  of  witchery  in  her  ingenuous 
expression.  And  yet  he  made  a  desultory  struggle 
against  what  a  secret  voice  was  always  whispering 
was  a  degradation.  He  knew  she  had  no  real  place 
in  his  life ;  he  scarce  thought  of  her  save  when  she 
came  bodily  before  his  eyes  with  her  pretty  face  and 
her  trustful  glance. 

He  felt  no  temptation  to  write  sonatas  on  her  eye- 
brow—  to  borrow  Peter's  variation,  for  the  use  of 
musicians,  of  Shakespeare's  "write  sonnets  on  his 
mistress's  eyebrow" — and,  indeed,  he  knew  she  could 
be  no  fit  mistress  for  him  —  this  starveling  drudge, 
with  passive  passions,  meek,  accepting,  with  well- 
nigh  every  spark  of  spontaneity  choked  out  of  her. 
The  women  of  his  dreams  were  quite  other — beauti- 
ful, voluptuous,  full  of  the  joy  of  life,  tremulous  with 
poetry  and  lofty  thought,  with  dark  amorous  orbs 
that  flashed  responsive  to  his  magic  melodies.  They 
hovered  about  him  as  he  wrote  and  played  —  Venuses 
rising  from  the  seas  of  his  music.  And  then — with 
his  eyes  full  of  the  divine  tears  of  youth,  with  his 
brain  a  hive  of  winged  dreams  —  he  would  turn  and 
kiss  merely  Mary  Ann  !  Such  is  the  pitiful  breed 
of  mortals. 

And  after  every  such  fall,  he  thought  more  con- 
temptuously of  Mary  Ann.     Idealise  her  as  he  might, 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  367 

see  all  that  was  best  in  her  as  he  tried  to,  she  re- 
mained common  and  commonplace  enough.  Her 
ingenuousness,  while  from  one  point  of  view  it  was 
charming,  from  another  was  but  a  pleasant  synonym 
for  silliness.  And  it  might  not  be  ingenuousness  — 
or  silliness  —  after  all!  For,  was  Mary  Ann  as 
innocent  as  she  looked  ?  The  guilelessness  of  the 
dove  might  very  well  cover  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent. 
The  instinct  —  the  repugnance  that  made  him  sponge 
off  her  first  kiss  from  his  lips — was  probably  a  true 
instinct.  How  was  it  possible  a  girl  of  that  class 
should  escape  the  sordid  attentions  of  street  swains  ? 
Even  when  she  was  in  the  country  she  was  well-nigh 
of  wooable  age,  the  likely  cynosure  of  neighbouring 
ploughboys'  eyes.  And  what  of  the  other  lodgers ! 
A  finer  instinct  —  that  of  a  gentleman  —  kept  him 
from  putting  any  questions  to  Mary  Ann.  Indeed, 
his  own  delicacy  repudiated  the  images  that  strove 
to  find  entry  in  his  brain,  even  as  his  fastidiousness 
shrank  from  realising  the  unlovely  details  of  Mary 
Ann's  daily  duties  —  these  things  disgusted  him  more 
with  himself  than  with  her.  And  yet  he  found  him- 
self acquiring  a  new  and  illogical  interest  in  the  boots 
he  met  outside  doors.  Early  one  morning  he  went 
halfway  up  the  second  flight  of  stairs  —  a  strange 
region  where  his  own  boots  had  never  before  trod  — 
but  came  down  ashamed  and  with  fluttering  heart  as 
if  he  had  gone  up  to  steal  boots  instead  of  to  survey 
them.       He  might   have    asked    Mary    Ann   or   her 


368  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"missus  "  who  the  other  tenants  were,  but  he  shrank 
from  the  topic.  Their  hours  were  not  his,  and  he 
only  once  chanced  on  a  fellow-man  in  the  passage, 
and  then  he  was  not  sure  it  was  not  the  tax-collector. 
Besides,  he  was  not  really  interested  —  it  was  only 
a  flicker  of  idle  curiosity  as  to  the  actual  psychology 
of  Mary  Ann.  That  he  did  not  really  care  he  proved 
to  himself  by  kissing  her  next  time.  He  accepted 
her  as  she  was  —  because  she  was  there.  She 
brightened  his  troubled  life  a  little,  and  he  was  quite 
sure  he  brightened  hers.  So  he  drifted  on,  not  worry- 
ing himself  to  mean  any  definite  harm  to  her.  He  had 
quite  enough  worry  with  those  music  publishers. 

The  financial  outlook  was,  indeed,  becoming  terri- 
fying. He  was  glad  there  was  nobody  to  question 
him,  for  he  did  not  care  to  face  the  facts.  Peter's 
threat  of  becoming  a  regular  visitor  had  been  nulli- 
fied by  his  father  despatching  him  to  Germany  to 
buy  up  some  more  Teutonic  patents.  "Wonderful 
are  the  ways  of  Providence !  "  he  had  written  to 
Lancelot.  "  If  I  had  not  flown  in  the  old  man's 
face  and  picked  up  a  little  German  here  years  ago, 
I  should  not  be  half  so  useful  to  him  now.  ...  I 
shall  pay  a  flying  visit  to  Leipsic  —  not  on  business."' 

But  at  last  Peter  returned,  Mrs.  Leadbatter  panting 
to  the  door  to  let  him  in  one  afternoon  without  troub- 
ling to  ask  Lancelot  if  he  was  "at  home."  He 
burst  upon  the  musician,  and  found  him  in  the  most 
undisguisable  dumps. 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  369 

"  Why  didn't  you  answer  my  letter,  you  impolite 
old  bear?"  Peter  asked,  warding  off  Beethoven  with 
his  umbrella. 

"  I  was  busy,"  Lancelot  replied  pettishly. 

"  Busy  writing  rubbish.  Haven't  you  got  '  Ops.' 
enough  ?  I  bet  you  haven't  had  anything  published 
yet." 

"  I  am  working  at  a  grand  opera,"  he  said  in  dry, 
mechanical  tones.  "  I  have  hopes  of  getting  it  put 
on.  Gasco,  the  impresario,  is  a  member  of  my  club, 
and  he  thinks  of  running  a  season  in  the  autumn. 
I  had  a  talk  with  him  yesterday." 

"I  hope  I  shall  live  to  see  it,"  said  Peter,  sceptically. 

"  I  hope  you  will,"  said  Lancelot,  sharply. 

"  None  of  my  family  ever  lived  beyond  ninety," 
said  Peter,  shaking  his  head  dolefully ;  "  and  then, 
my  heart  is  not  so  good  as  it  might  be." 

"  It  certainly  isn't !  "  cried  poor  Lancelot.  "  But 
everybody  hits  a  chap  when  he's  down." 

He  turned  his  head  away,  striving  to  swallow  the 
lump  that  would  rise  to  his  throat.  He  had  a  sense 
of  infinite  wretchedness  and  loneliness. 

"  Oh,  poor  old  chap ;  is  it  so  bad  as  all  that  ? " 
Peter's  somewhat  strident  voice  had  grown  tender  as 
a  woman's.  He  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on 
Lancelot's  tumbled  hair.  "  You  know  I  believe  in 
you  with  all  my  soul.  I  never  doubted  your  genius 
for  a  moment.  Don't- 1  know  too  well  that's  what 
keeps  you  back  ?     Come,  come,  old  fellow.     Can't  I 


370  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

persuade  you  to  write  rot  ?  One  must  keep  the  pot 
boiling,  you  know.  You  turn  out  a  dozen  popular 
ballads,  and  the  coin'll  follow  your  music  as  the 
rats  did  the  pied  piper's.  Then,  if  you  have  any 
ambition  left,  you  kick  away  the  ladder  by  which 
you  mounted,  and  stand  on  the  heights  of  art." 

"  Never !  "  cried  Lancelot.  "  It  would  degrade  me 
in  my  own  eyes.  I'd  rather  starve ;  and  you  can't 
shake  them  off  —  the  first  impression  is  everything; 
they  would  always  be  remembered  against  me,"  he 
added  after  a  pause. 

"  Motives  mixed,"  reflected  Peter.  "  That's  a  good 
sign."  Aloud  he  said,  "Well,  you  think  it  over. 
This  is  a  practical  world,  old  man ;  it  wasn't  made 
for  dreamers.  And  one  of  the  first  dreams  that 
you've  got  to  wake  from  is  the  dream  that  anybody 
connected  with  the  stage  can  be  relied  on  from  one 
day  to  the  next.  They  gas  for  the  sake  of  gassing, 
or  they  tell  you  pleasant  lies  out  of  mere  goodwill, 
just  as  they  call  for  your  drinks.  Their  promises 
are  beautiful  bubbles,  on  a  basis  of  soft  soap,  and 
made  to  '  bust.'  " 

"You  grow  quite  eloquent,"  said  Lancelot,  with 
a  wan  smile. 

"  Eloquent !  There's  more  in  me  than  you've  yet 
found  out.  Now  then !  Give  us  your  hand  that 
you'll  chuck  art,  and  we'll  drink  to  your  popular 
ballad  —  hundredth  thousand  edition,  no  drawing- 
room  should  be  without  it." 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  371 

Lancelot  flushed.  "  I  was  just  going  to  have 
some  tea.     I  think  it's  five  o'clock,"  he  murmured. 

"  The  very  thing  I'm  dying  for,"  cried  Peter, 
energetically;  "  I'm  as  parched  as  a  pea."  Inwardly 
he  was  shocked  to  find  the  stream  of  whisky  run  dry. 

So  Lancelot  rang  the  bell,  and  Mary  Ann  came 
up  with  the  tea-tray  in  the  twilight. 

"  We'll  have  a  light,"  cried  Peter,  and  struck  one 
of  his  own  with  a  shadowy  underthought  of  saving 
Mary  Ann  from  a  possible  scolding,  in  case  Lance- 
lot's matches  should  be  again  unapparent.  Then 
he  uttered  a  comic  exclamation  of  astonishment. 
Mary  Ann  was  putting  on  a  pair  of  gloves !  In  his 
surprise  he  dropped  the  match. 

Mary  Ann  was  equally  startled  by  the  unexpected 
sight  of  a  stranger,  but  when  he  struck  his  second 
match  her  hands  were  bare  and  red. 

"What  in  Heaven's  name  were  you  putting  on 
gloves  for,  my  girl  ? "  said  Peter,  amused. 

Lancelot  stared  fixedly  at  the  fire,  trying  to  keep 
the  blood  from  flooding  his  cheeks.  He  wondered 
that  the  ridiculousness  of  the  whole  thing  had  never 
struck  him  in  its  full  force  before.  Was  it  possible 
he  could  have  made  such  an  ass  of  himself  ? 

"Please,  sir,  I've  got  to  go  out,  and  I'm  in  a 
hurry,"   said  Mary  Ann. 

Lancelot  felt  intense  relief.  An  instant  after  his 
brow  wrinkled  itself.  "Oho!"  he  thought.  "So 
this  is  Miss  Simpleton,  is  it  ? " 


372  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"Then  why  did  you  take  them  off  again?"  re- 
torted Peter. 

Mary  Ann's  repartee  was  to  burst  into  tears  and 
leave  the  room. 

"  Now  I've  offended  her,"  said  Peter.  "  Did  you 
see  how  she  tossed  her  pretty  head  ? " 

"  Ingenious  minx,"  thought  Lancelot. 

"  She's  left  the  tray  on  a  chair  by  the  door," 
went  on  Peter.  "  What  an  odd  girl !  Does  she 
always  carry  on  like  this  ? " 

"  She's  got  such  a  lot  to  do.  I  suppose  she  some- 
times gets  a  bit  queer  in  her  head,"  said  Lancelot, 
conceiving  he  was  somehow  safeguarding  Mary  Ann's 
honour  by  the  explanation. 

"  I  don't  think  that,"  answered  Peter.  "  She  did 
seem  dull  and  stupid  when  I  was  here  last.  But  I 
had  a  good  stare  at  her  just  now,  and  she  seems 
rather  bright.  Why,  her  accent  is  quite  refined  — 
she  must  have  picked  it  up  from  you." 

"  Nonsense,  nonsense,"  exclaimed  Lancelot,  testily. 

The  little  danger  —  or  rather  the  great  danger  of 
being  made  to  appear  ridiculous  —  which  he  had 
just  passed  through,  contributed  to  rouse  him  from 
his  torpor.  He  exerted  himself  to  turn  the  con- 
versation, and  was  quite  lively  over  tea. 

"  Sw — eet !  Sw — w — w — w — eet ! "  suddenly  broke 
into  the  conversation. 

"  More  mysteries  !  "  cried  Peter.     "  What's  that  ?  " 

"  Only  a  canary." 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  373 

"  What,  another  musical  instrument !  Isn't  Bee- 
thoven jealous  ?  I  wonder  he  doesn't  consume  his 
rival  in  his  wrath.  But  I  never  knew  you  liked 
birds." 

"  I  don't  particularly.     It  isn't  mine." 

"  Whose  is  it  ?  " 

Lancelot  answered  briskly:  "Mary  Ann's.  She 
asked  to  be  allowed  to  keep  it  here.  It  seems  it 
won't  sing  in  her  attic;  it  pines  away." 

"  And  do  you  believe  that?" 

"  Why  not  ?     It  doesn't  sing  much  even  here." 

"Let  me  look  at  it  —  ah,  it's  a  plain  Norwich 
yellow.  If  you  wanted  a  singing  canary  you  should 
have  come  to  me;  I'd  have  given  you  one  'made 
in  Germany  '  —  one  of  our  patents  —  they  train  them 
to  sing  tunes  and  that  puts  up  the  price." 

"  Thank  you,  but  this  one  disturbs  me  sufficiently." 

"Then  why  do  you  put  up  with  it?" 

"  Why  do  I  put  up  with  that  Christmas  number 
supplement  over  the  mantel-piece  ?  It's  part  of  the 
furniture.  I  was  asked  to  let  it  be  here  and  I 
couldn't  be  rude." 

"  No,  it's  not  in  your  nature.  What  a  bore  it 
must  be  to  feed  it !  Let  me  see,  I  suppose  you 
give  it  canary  seed  biscuits  —  I  hope  you  don't  give 
it  butter." 

"Don't  be  an  ass!"  roared  Lancelot.  "You 
don't  imagine  I  bother  my  head  whether  it  eats 
butter  or — or  marmalade." 


374  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"  Who  feeds  it  then  ?  " 

"  Mary  Ann,  of  course." 

"She  comes  in  and  feeds  it?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Several  times  a  day  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"Lancelot,"  said  Peter,  solemnly.  "Mary  Ann's 
mashed  on  you." 

Lancelot  shrank  before  Peter's  remark  as  a  burg- 
lar from  a  policeman's  bull's-eye.  The  bull's-eye 
seemed  to  cast  a  new  light  on  Mary  Ann,  too,  but 
he  felt  too  unpleasantly  dazzled  to  consider  that  for 
the  moment ;  his  whole  thought  was  to  get  out  of  the 
line  of  light. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  he  answered  ;  "  why,  I'm  hardly  ever 
in  when  she  feeds  it,  and  I  believe  it  eats  all  day 
long  —  gets  supplied  in  the  morning  like  a  coal- 
scuttle. Besides,  she  comes  in  to  dust  and  all  that 
when  she  pleases.  And  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  use 
that  word  '  mashed.'     I  loathe  it." 

Indeed,  he  writhed  under  the  thought  of  being 
coupled  with  Mary  Ann.  The  thing  sounded  so 
ugly  —  so  squalid.  In  the  actual,  it  was  not  so  un- 
pleasant, but  looked  at  from  the  outside  —  unsym- 
pathetically  —  it  was  hopelessly  vulgar,  incurably 
plebeian.     He  shuddered. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Peter.  "  It's  a  very  expres- 
sive word,  is  'mashed.'  But  I  will  make  allowance 
for  your  poetical  feelings  and    give  up  the  word  — 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  375 

except  in  its  literal  sense,  of  course.  I'm  sure  you 
wouldn't  object  to  mashing  a  music  publisher  !  " 

Lancelot  laughed  with  false  heartiness.  "  Oh,  but 
if  I'm  to  write  those  popular  ballads,  you  say  he'll 
become  my  best  friend." 

"Of  course  he  will,"  cried  Peter,  eagerly  sniffing 
at  the  red  herring  Lancelot  had  thrown  across  the 
track.  "  You  stand  out  for  a  royalty  on  every  copy, 
so  that  if  you  strike  ile — oh,  I  beg  your  pardon, 
that's  another  of  the  phrases  you  object  to,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Lancelot,  laughing  on. 
"  You  know  I  only  object  to  that  in  connection  with 
English  peers  marrying  the  daughters  of  men  who 
have  done  it." 

"  Oh,  is  that  it  ?  I  wish  you'd  publish  an  expur- 
gated dictionary  with  most  of  the  words  left  out,  and 
exact  definitions  of  the  conditions  under  which  one 
may  use  the  remainder.  But  I've  got  on  a  siding. 
What  was  I  talking  about  ?  " 

"  Royalty,"  muttered  Lancelot,  languidly. 

"  Royalty  ?  No.  You  mentioned  the  aristocracy, 
I  think."  Then  he  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh.  "  Oh, 
yes  —  on  that  ballad.  Now,  look  here  !  I've  brought 
a  ballad  with  me,  just  to  show  you  —  a  thing  that  is 
going  like  wildfire." 

"  Not  Good-night  and  Good-by,  I  hope,"  laughed 
Lancelot. 

"  Yes  —  the  very  one  !  "  cried  Peter,  astonished. 

"  Himmel  /"  groaned  Lancelot,  in  comic  despair. 


376  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"  You  know  it  already?"  inquired  Peter,  eagerly. 

"  No;  only  I  can't  open  a  paper  without  seeing  the 
advertisement  and  the  sickly  sentimental  refrain." 

"  You  see  how  famous  it  is,  anyway,"  said  Peter. 
"And  if  you  want  to  strike  —  er  —  to  make  a  hit 
you'll  just  take  that  song  and  do  a  deliberate  imita- 
tion of  it." 

"  Wha-a-a-t !  "  gasped  Lancelot. 

"  My  dear  chap,  they  all  do  it.  When  the  public 
cotton  to  a  thing,  they  can't  have  enough  of  it." 

"  But  I  can  write  my  own  rot,  surely." 

"  In  the  face  of  all  this  litter  of  '  Ops.'  I  daren't 
dispute  that  for  a  moment.  But  it  isn't  enough  to 
write  rot  —  the  public  want  a  particular  kind  of  rot. 
Now  just  play  that  over  —  oblige  me."  He  laid 
both  hands  on  Lancelot's  shoulders  in  amicable 
appeal. 

Lancelot  shrugged  them,  but  seated  himself  at  the 
piano,  played  the  introductory  chords,  and  com- 
menced singing  the  words  in  his  pleasant  bari- 
tone. 

Suddenly  Beethoven  ran  towards  the  door,  howl- 
ing. 

Lancelot  ceased  playing  and  looked  approvingly 
at  the  animal. 

"  By  Jove  !  he  wants  to  go  out.  What  an  ear  for 
music  that  animal's  got." 

Peter  smiled  grimly.  "  It's  long  enough.  I  sup- 
pose that's  why  you  call  him  Beethoven." 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  377 

"  Not  at  all.  Beethoven  had  no  ear  —  at  least  not 
in  his  latest  period  —  he  was  deaf.  Lucky  devil ! 
That  is,  if  this  sort  of  thing  was  brought  round  on 
barrel-organs." 

"  Never  mind,  old  man  !     Finish  the  thing." 

"  But  consider  Beethoven's  feelings  !  " 

"  Hang  Beethoven  !  " 

"Poor  Beethoven.  Come  here,  my  poor  maligned 
musical  critic !  Would  they  give  you  a  bad  name 
and  hang  you  ?  Now  you  must  be  very  quiet.  Put 
your  paws  into  those  lovely  long  ears  of  yours,  if  it 
gets  too  horrible.  You  have  been  used  to  high-class 
music,  I  know,  but  this  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  Eng- 
land expects  every  man  to  do,  so  the  sooner  you  get 
used  to  it,  the  better."  He  ran  his  fingers  along  the 
keys.  "There,  Peter,  he's  growling  already.  I'm 
sure  he'll  start  again,  the  moment  I  strike  the 
theme." 

"  Let  him  !     We'll  take  it  as  a  spaniel  obligato." 

"  Oh,  but  his  accompaniments  are  too  staccato. 
He  has  no  sense  of  time." 

"  Why  don't  you  teach  him,  then,  to  wag  his  tail 
like  the  pendulum  of  a  metronome  ?  He'd  be  more 
use  to  you  that  way  than  setting  up  to  be  a  musician, 
which  Nature  never  meant  him  for  —  his  hair's  not 
long  enough.  But  go  ahead,  old  man,  Beethoven's 
behaving  himself  now." 

Indeed,  as  if  he  were  satisfied  with  his  protest,  the 
little  beast  remained  quiet,  while  his  lord  and  master 


378  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

went  through  the  piece.     He  did  not  even  interrupt 
at  the  refrain  :  — 

"  Kiss  me,  good-night,  dear  love, 
Dream  of  the  old  delight ; 
My  spirit  is  summoned  above, 
Kiss  me,  dear  love,  good-night." 

"  I  must  say  it's  not  so  awful  as  I  expected," 
said  Lancelot,  candidly;  "it's  not  at  all  bad  —  for  a 
waltz." 

"There,  you  see!"  cried  Peter,  eagerly;  "the 
public  are  not  such  fools  after  all." 

"Still,  the  words  are  the  most  maudlin  twaddle!  ' 
said  Lancelot,  as  if  he  found  some  consolation  in  the 
fact. 

"Yes,  but  I  didn't  write  them!"  replied  Peter, 
quickly.  Then  he  grew  red  and  laughed  an  em- 
barrassed laugh.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you,  old 
man.  But  there  —  the  cat's  out.  That's  what  took 
me  to  Brahmson's  that  afternoon  we  met !  And  I 
harmonised  it  myself,  mind  you,  every  crotchet.  I 
picked  up  enough  at  the  Conservatoire  for  that.  You 
know  lots  of  fellows  only  do  the  tune  —  they  give  out 
all  the  other  work." 

"  So  you  are  the  great  Keeley  Lesterre,  eh  ? "  said 
Lancelot,  in  amused  astonishment. 

"  Yes ;  I  have  to  do  it  under  another  name.  I 
don't  want  to  grieve  the  old  man.  You  see,  I  prom- 
ised him  to  reform,  when  he  took  me  back  to  his 
heart  and  business." 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  379 

"  Is  that  strictly  honourable,  Peter  ?  "  said  Lancelot, 
shaking  his  head. 

"  Oh,  well !  I  couldn't  give  it  up  altogether,  but 
I  do  practically  stick  to  the  contract  —  it's  all  over- 
time, you  know.  It  doesn't  interfere  a  bit  with 
business.  Besides,  as  you'd  say,  it  isn't  music,"  he 
said  slyly.  "  And  just  because  I  don't  want  it  I 
make  a  heap  of  coin  out  of  it  —  that's  why  I'm  so 
vexed  at  your  keeping  me  still  in  your  debt." 

Lancelot  frowned.  "  Then  you  had  no  difficulty 
in  getting  published  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  say  that.  It  was  bribery  and  corruption 
so  far  as  my  first  song  was  concerned.  I  tipped 
a  professional  to  go  down  and  tell  Brahmson  he  was 
going  to  take  it  up.  You  know,  of  course,  well- 
known  singers  get  half-a-guinea  from  the  publisher 
every  time  they  sing  a  song." 

"No;  do  they?"  said  Lancelot.  "  How  mean  of 
them  !  " 

"  Business,  my  boy.  It  pays  the  publisher  to  give 
it  them.     Look  at  the  advertisement !  " 

"  But  suppose  a  really  fine  song  was  published, 
and  the  publisher  refused  to  pay  this  blood-money  ?  " 

"  Then  I  suppose  they'd  sing  some  other  song, 
and  let  that  moulder  on  the  foolish  publisher's 
shelves." 

"Great  Heavens  !"  said  Lancelot,  jumping  up  from 
the  piano  in  wild  excitement.  "  Then  a  musician's 
reputation  is  really  at  the  mercy  of  a  mercenary  crew 


380  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

-of  singers,  who  respect  neither  art  nor  themselves. 
Oh,  yes,  we  are  indeed  a  musical  people  !  " 

"  Easy  there  !  Several  of  'em  are  pals  of  mine, 
and  I'll  get  them  to  take  up  those  ballads  of  yours  as 
soon  as  you  write  'em." 

"  Let  them  go  to  the  devil  with  their  ballads !  " 
roared  Lancelot,  and  with  a  sweep  of  his  arm 
whirled  Good-nigJit  mid  Good-by  into  the  air.  Peter 
picked  it  up  and  wrote  something  on  it  with  a 
stylographic  pen  which  he  produced  from  his  waist- 
coat pocket. 

"There!"  he  said,  "that'll  make  you  remember 
it's  your  own  property  —  and  mine  —  that  you  are 
treating  so  disrespectfully." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  old  chap,"  said  Lancelot, 
rebuked  and  remorseful. 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  replied  Peter.  "  And  when- 
ever you  decide  to  become  rich  and  famous  —  there's 
your  model." 

"  Never  !  Never  !  Never  !  "  cried  Lancelot,  when 
Peter  went  at  ten.  "  My  poor  Beethoven !  What 
you  must  have  suffered!  Never  mind,  I'll  play  you 
your  moonlight  sonata." 

He  touched  the  keys  gently  and  his  sorrows  and 
his  temptations  faded  from  him.  He  glided  into 
Bach,  and  then  into  Chopin  and  Mendelssohn,  and 
at  last  drifted  into  dreamy  improvisation,  his  fingers 
moving  almost  of  themselves,  his  eyes  half  closed, 
seeing  only  inward  visions. 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  381 

And  then,  all  at  once,  he  awoke  with  a  start,  for 
Beethoven  was  barking  towards  the  door,  with 
pricked-up  ears  and  rigid  tail. 

"  Sh  !  You  little  beggar,"  he  murmured,  becom- 
ing conscious  that  the  hour  was  late,  and  that  he 
himself  had  been  noisy  at  unbeseeming  hours. 
"What's  the  matter  with  you  ?"  And,  with  a  sudden 
thought,  he  threw  open  the  door. 

It  was  merely  Mary  Ann. 

Her  face  —  flashed  so  unexpectedly  upon  him  — 
had  the  piquancy  of  a  vision,  but  its  expression  was 
one  of  confusion  and  guilt ;  there  were  tears  on  her 
cheeks  ;  in  her  hand  was  a  bedroom  candle-stick. 

She  turned  quickly,  and  began  to  mount  the  stairs. 
Lancelot  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  turned 
her  face  towards  him  and  said  in  an  imperious 
whisper  :  — 

"  Now  then,  what's  up  ?  What  are  you  crying 
about  ? " 

"I  ain't  —  I  mean  I'm  not  crying,"  said  Mary 
Ann,  with  a  sob  in  her  breath. 

"  Come,  come,  don't  fib.     What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  crying,  it's  only  the  music,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"  The  music,"  he  echoed,  bewildered. 

"  Yessir.  The  music  always  makes  me  cry  —  but 
you  can't  call  it-crying  —  it  feels  so  nice." 

"  Oh,  then  you've  been  listening  !  " 

"  Yessir."     Her  eyes  drooped  in  humiliation. 


382  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"But  you  ought  to  have  been  in  bed,"  he  said. 
"You  get  little  enough  sleep  as  it  is." 

"  It's  better  than  sleep,"  she  answered. 

The  simple  phrase  vibrated  through  him,  like  a 
beautiful  minor  chord.  He  smoothed  her  hair 
tenderly. 

"  Poor  child  !  "  he  said. 

There  was  an  instant's  silence.  It  was  past  mid- 
night, and  the  house- was  painfully  still.  They  stood 
upon  the  dusky  landing,  across  which  a  bar  of  light 
streamed  from  his  half-open  door,  and  only  Beetho- 
ven's eyes  were  upon  them.  But  Lancelot  felt  no 
impulse  to  fondle  her,  only  just  to  lay  his  hand  on 
her  hair,  as  in  benediction  and  pity. 

"So  you  liked  what  I  was  playing,"  he  said,  not 
without  a  pang  of  personal  pleasure. 

"  Yessir  ;  I  never  heard  you  play  that  before." 

"  So  you  often  listen  !  " 

"  I  can  hear  you,  even  in  the  kitchen.  Oh,  it's 
just  lovely!  I  don't  care  what  I  have  to  do  then,  if 
it's  grates  or  plates  or  steps.  The  music  goes  and 
goes,  and  I  feel  back  in  the  country  again,  and  stand- 
ing, as  I  used  to  love  to  stand  of  an  evening,  by  the 
stile,  under  the  big  elm,  and  watch  how  the  sunset 
did  redden  the  white  birches,  and  fade  in  the  water. 
Oh,  it  was  so  nice  in  the  springtime,  with  the  haw- 
thorn that  grew  on  the  other  bank,  and  the  blue- 
bells —  " 

The    pretty  face   was    full    of    dreamy  tenderness, 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  383 

the  eyes  lit  up  witchingly.  She  pulled  herself  up 
suddenly,  and  stole  a  shy  glance  at  her  auditor. 

"Yes,  yes,  go  on,"  he  said;  "tell  me  all  you  feel 
about  the  music." 

"  And  there's  one  song  you  sometimes  play  that 
makes  me  feel  floating  on  and  on  like  a  great  white 
swan." 

She  hummed  a  few  bars  of  the  Gondel-Lied — 
flawlessly. 

"  Dear  me !  you  have  an  ear !  "  he  said,  pinching 
it.  "And  how  did  you  like  what  I  was  playing  just 
now  ? "  he  went  on,  growing  curious  to  know  how  his 
own  improvisations  struck  her. 

"  Oh,  I  liked  it  so  much,"  she  whispered  back, 
enthusiastically ;  "  because  it  reminded  me  of  my 
favourite  one  —  every  moment  I  did  think  —  I 
thought  —  you    were    going    to    come    into    that." 

The  whimsical  sparkle  leapt  into  his  eyes.  "  And 
I  thought  I  was  so  original,"  he  murmured. 

"  But  what  I  liked  best,"  she  began,  then  checked 
herself,  as  if  suddenly  remembering  she  had  never 
made  a  spontaneous  remark  before,  and  lacking 
courage  to  establish  a  precedent. 

"  Yes  —  what  you  liked  best  ?  "  he  said  encourag- 
ingly. 

"That  song  you  sang  this  afternoon,"  she  said 
shyly. 

"What  song?  I  sang  no  song,"  he  said,  puzzled 
for  a  moment. 


384  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"  Oh,  yes  !     That  one  about  — 

'  Kiss  me,  dear  love,  good-night.' 

I  was  going  upstairs  but  it  made  me  stop  just  here  — 
and  cry." 

He  made  his  comic  grimace. 

"So  it  was  you  Beethoven  was  barking  at !  And 
I  thought  he  had  an  ear  !  And  I  thought  you  had 
an  ear  !  But  no  !  You're  both  Philistines  after  all. 
Heigho!" 

She  looked  sad.  "Oughtn't  I  to  ha'  liked  it?" 
she  asked  anxiously. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said  reassuringly  ;  "  it's  very  popular. 
No  drawing-room  is  without  it." 

She  detected  the  ironic  ring  in  his  voice.  "  It 
wasn't  so  much  the  music,"  she  began  apologetically. 

"Now — now  you're  going  to  spoil  yourself,"  he 
said.     "  Be  natural." 

"  But  it  wasn't,"  she  protested.  "  It  was  the 
words  —  " 

"  That's  worse,"  he  murmured    below  his   breath. 

"  They  reminded  me  of  my  mother  as  she  laid 
dying." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Lancelot. 

"Yes,  sir,  mother  was  a  long  time  dying — it  was 
when  I  was  a  little  girl  and  I  used  to  nurse  her  —  I 
fancy  it  was  our  little  Sally's  death  that  killed  her, 
she  took  to  her  bed  after  the  funeral  and  never  left  it 
till   she    went   to    her   own,"    said    Mary  Ann,    with 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  385 

unconscious  flippancy.  "  She  used  to  look  up  to  the 
ceiling  and  say  that  she  was  going  to  little  Sallie, 
and  I  remember  I  was  such  a  silly  then,  I  brought 
mother  flowers  and  apples  and  bits  of  cake  to  take 
to  Sally  with  my  love.  I  put  them  on  her  pillow,  but 
the  flowers  faded  and  the  cake  got  mouldy  —  mother 
was  such  a  long  time  dying  —  and  at  last  I  ate  the 
apples  myself,  I  was  so  tired  of  waiting.  Wasn't  I 
silly  ?  "  And  Mary  Ann  laughed  a  little  laugh  with 
tears  in  it.  Then  growing  grave  again,  she  added  : 
"  And  at  last,  when  mother  was  really  on  the  point 
of  death,  she  forgot  all  about  little  Sally  and  said  she 
was  going  to  meet  Tom.  And  I  remember  thinking 
she  was  going  to  America — I  didn't  know  people 
talk  nonsense  before  they  die." 

"They  do — a  great  deal  of  it,  unfortunately," 
said  Lancelot,  lightly,  trying  to  disguise  from  him- 
self that  his  eyes  were  moist.  He  seemed  to  realise 
now  what  she  was  —  a  child;  a  child  who,  simpler 
than  most  children  to  start  with,  had  grown  only 
in  body,  whose  soul  had  been  stunted  by  uncounted 
years  of  dull  and  monotonous  drudgery.  The  blood 
burnt  in  his  veins  as  he  thought  of  the  cruelty  of  cir- 
cumstance and  the  heartless  honesty  of  her  mistress. 
He  made  up  his  mind  for  the  second  time  to  give  Mrs. 
Leaclbatter  a  piece  of  his  mind  in  the  morning. 

"Well,  go  to  bed  now,  my  poor  child,"  he  said, 
"  or  you'll  get  no  rest  at  all." 

"  Yessir." 


386  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

She  went  obediently  up  a  couple  of  stairs,  then 
turned  her  head  appealingly  towards  him.  The 
tears  still  glimmered  on  her  eyelashes.  For  an 
instant  he  thought  she  was  expecting  her  kiss,  but 
she  only  wanted  to  explain  anxiously  once  again, 
"  That  was  why  I  liked  that  song,  '  Kiss  me,  good- 
night, dear  love.'     It  was  what  my  mother — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand,"  he  broke  in,  half 
amused,  though  somehow  the  words  did  not  seem 
so  full  of  maudlin  pathos  to  him  now.  "  And 
there  —  "  he  drew  her  head  towards  him  —  "  Kiss 
me,  good-night  —  " 

He  did  not  complete  the  quotation  ;  indeed,  her 
lips  were  already  drawn  too  close  to  his.  But,  ere 
he  released  her,  the  long-repressed  thought  had 
found  expression. 

"  You  don't  kiss  anybody  but  me  ?  "  he  said  half 
playfully. 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,"  said  Mary  Ann,  earnestly. 

"  What !  "  more  lightly  still.  "  Haven't  you  got 
half  a  dozen  young  men?" 

Mary  Ann  shook  her  head,  more  regretfully  than 
resentfully.  "  I  told  you  I  never  go  out  —  except  for 
little  errands." 

She  had  told  him,  but  his  attention  had  been  so 
concentrated  on  the  ungrammatical  form  in  which 
she  had  conveyed  the  information,  that  the  fact 
itself  had  made  no  impression.  Now  his  anger 
against   Mrs.   Leadbatter  dwindled.      After  all,  she 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  387 

was  wise  in  not  giving  Mary  Ann  the  run  of  the 
London  streets. 

"  But  "  —  he  hesitated.  "  How  about  the  —  the 
milkman  —  and  the  —  the  other  gentlemen?" 

"  Please,  sir,"  said  Mary  Ann,  "  I  don't  like  them." 

After  that  no  man  could  help  expressing  his  sense 
of  her  good  taste. 

"Then  you  won't  kiss  anybody  but  me,"  he  said, 
as  he  let  her  go  for  the  last  time.  He  had  a 
Quixotic  sub-consciousness  that  he  was  saving  her 
from  his  kind  by  making  her  promise  formally. 

"How  could  I,  Mr.  Lancelot?"  And  the  brim- 
ming eyes  shone  with  soft  light.  "I  never  shall  — 
never." 

It  sounded  like  a  troth. 

He  went  back  to  the  room  and  shut  the  door, 
but  could  not  shut  out  her  image.  The  picture  she 
had  unwittingly  supplied  of  herself  took  possession 
of  his  imagination :  he  saw  her  almost  as  a  dream- 
figure  —  the  virginal  figure  he  knew  —  standing  by 
the  stream  in  the  sunset,  amid  the  elms  and  silver 
birches,  with  daisies  in  her  hands  and  bluebells  at 
her  feet,  inhaling  the  delicate  scent  that  wafted 
from  the  white  hawthorn  bushes,  and  watching  the 
water  glide  along  till  it  seemed  gradually  to  wash 
away  the  fading  colours  of  the  sunset  that  glorified 
it.  And  as  he  dwelt  on  the  vision  he  felt  harmonies 
and  phrases  stirring  and  singing  in  his  brain,  like  a 
choir  of  awakened  birds.     Quickly  he  seized  paper 


388  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

and  wrote  down  the  theme  that  flowed  out  at  the 
point  of  his  pen  —  a  reverie  full  of  the  haunting 
magic  of  quiet  waters  and  woodland  sunsets  and  the 
gracious  innocence  of  maidenhood.  When  it  was 
done  he  felt  he  must  give  it  a  distinctive  name. 
He  cast  about  for  one,  pondering  and  rejecting 
titles  innumerable.  Countless  lines  of  poetry  ran 
through  his  head,  from  which  he  sought  to  pick  a 
word  or  two  as  one  plucks  a  violet  from  a  posy. 
At  last  a  half-tender,  half-whimsical  look  came  into 
his  face,  and  picking  his  pen  out  of  his  hair,  he 
wrote  merely —  "  Marianne." 

It  was  only  natural  that  Mary  Ann  should  be 
unable  to  maintain  herself  —  or  be  maintained  — 
at  this  idyllic  level.  But  her  fall  was  aggravated  by 
two  circumstances,  neither  of  which  had  any  partic- 
ular business  to  occur.  The  first  was  an  intimation 
from  the  misogamist  German  Professor  that  he  had 
persuaded  another  of  his  old  pupils  to  include  a 
prize-symphony  by  Lancelot  in  the  programme  of  a 
Crystal  Palace  Concert.  This  was  of  itself  sufficient 
to  turn  Lancelot's  head  away  from  all  but  thoughts  of 
Fame,  even  if  Mary  Ann  had  not  been  luckless 
enough  to  be  again  discovered  cleaning  the  steps  — 
and  without  gloves.  Against  such  a  spectacle  the 
veriest  idealist  is  powerless.  If  Many  Ann  did  not 
immediately  revert  to  the  category  of  quadrupeds  in 
which  she  had  started,  it  was  only  because  of  Lance- 
lot's supplementary  knowledge  of  the  creature.     But 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  389 

as  he  passed  her  by,  solicitous  as  before  not  to  tread 
upon  her,  he  felt  as  if  all  the  cold  water  in  her  pail 
were  pouring  down  the  back  of  his  neck. 

Nevertheless,  the  effect  of  both  of  these  turns  of 
fortune  was  transient.  The  symphony  was  duly 
performed,  and  dismissed  in  the  papers  as  promising, 
if  over-ambitious ;  the  only  tangible  result  was  a 
suggestion  from  the  popular  composer,  who  was  a 
member  of  his  club,  that  Lancelot  should  collaborate 
with  him  in  a  comic  opera,  for  the  production  of 
which  he  had  facilities.  The  composer  confessed  he 
had  a  fluent  gift  of  tune,  but  had  no  liking  for  the 
drudgery  of  orchestration,  and,  as  Lancelot  was  well 
up  in  these  tedious  technicalities,  the  two  might  strike 
a  partnership  to  mutual  advantage. 

Lancelot  felt  insulted,  but  retained  enough  mas- 
tery of  himself  to  reply  that  he  would  think  it  over. 
As  he  gave  no  signs  of  life  or  thought,  the  popular 
composer  then  wrote  to  him  at  length  on  the  subject, 
offering  him  fifty  pounds  for  the  job,  half  of  it  on 
account.  Lancelot  was  in  sore  straits  when  he  got  the 
letter,  for  his  stock  of  money  was  dwindling  to  vanish- 
ing point,  and  he  dallied  with  the  temptation  suffi- 
ciently to  take  the  letter  home  with  him.  But  his 
spirit  was  not  yet  broken,  and  the  letter,  crumpled 
like  a  rag,  was  picked  up  by  Mary  Ann  and  straight- 
ened out,  and  carefully  placed  upon' the  mantel-shelf. 

Time  did  something  of  a  similar  service  for  Mary 
Ann    herself,    picking    her   up    from    the    crumpled 


390  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

attitude  in  which  Lancelot  had  detected  her  on  the 
doorstep,  straightening  her  out  again,  and  replacing 
her  upon  her  semi-poetic  pedestal.  But,  as  with  the 
cream-laid  note-paper,  the  wrinklings  could  not  be  ef- 
faced entirely;  which  was  more  serious  for  Mary  Ann. 

Not  that  Mary  Ann  was  conscious  of  these  diverse 
humours  in  Lancelot.  Unconscious  of  changes  in 
herself  she  could  not  conceive  herself  related  to 
his  variations  of  mood ;  still  less  did  she  realise  the 
inward  struggle,  of  which  she  was  the  cause.  She 
was  vaguely  aware  that  he  had  external  worries,  for 
all  his  grandeur,  and  if  he  was  by  turns  brusque, 
affectionate,  indifferent,  playful,  brutal,  charming, 
callous,  demonstrative,  she  no  more  connected  herself 
with  these  vicissitudes  than  with  the  caprices  of  the 
weather.  If  her  sun  smiled  once  a  day  it  was 
enough.  How  should  she  know  that  his  indifference 
was  often  a  victory  over  himself,  as  his  amativeness 
was  a  defeat  ? 

If  any  excuse  could  be  found  for  Lancelot,  it  would 
be  that  which  he  administered  to  his  conscience 
morning  and  evening  like  a  soothing  syrup.  His 
position  was  grown  so  desperate  that  Mary  Ann 
almost  stood  between  him  and  suicide.  Continued 
disappointment  made  his  soul  sick;  his  proud  heart 
fed  on  itself.  He  would  bite  his  lips  till  the  blood 
came,  vowing  never  to  give  in.  And  not  only  would 
he  not  move  an  inch  from  his  ideal,  he  would  rather 
die   than  gratify  Peter  by  falling  back  on  him ;  he 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  391 

would   never   even   accept   that   cheque   which  was 
virtually  his  own. 

It  was  wonderful  how,  in  his  stoniest  moments,  the 
sight  of  Mary  Ann's  candid  face,  eloquent  with  dumb 
devotion,  softened  and  melted  him.  He  would  take 
her  gloved  hand  and  press  it  silently.  And  Mary 
Ann  never  knew  one  iota  of  his  inmost  thought !  He 
could  not  bring  himself  to  that ;  indeed,  she  never 
for  a  moment  appeared  to  him  in  the  light  of  an 
intelligent  being  ;  at  her  best  she  was  a  sweet,  simple, 
loving  child.  And  he  scarce  spoke  to  her  at  all  now 
—  theirs  was  a  silent  communion  —  he  had  no  heart 
to  converse  with  her  as  he  had  done.  The  piano  too 
was  almost  silent ;  the  canary  sang  less  and  less, 
though  spring  was  coming,  and  glints  of  sunshine  stole 
between  the  wires  of  its  cage ;  even  Beethoven  some- 
times failed  to  bark  when  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
street  door. 

And  at  last  there  came  a  day  when  — for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  —  Lancelot  inspected  his  wardrobe, 
and  hunted  together  his  odds  and  ends  of  jewelry. 
From  this  significant  task  he  was  aroused  by  hearing 
Mrs.  Leadbatter  coughing  in  his  sitting-room. 

He  went  in  with  an  interrogative  look. 

"Oh,  my  chest!"  said  Mrs.  Leadbatter,  patting  it. 
"  It's  no  use  my  denyin'  of  it,  sir,  I'm  done  up.  It's 
as  much  as  I  can  do  to  crawl  up  to  the  top  to  bed.  I'm 
thinkin'  I  shall  have  to  make  up  a  bed  in  the  kitchen. 
It  only  shows  'ow  right  I  was  to  send  for  my  Rosie, 


392  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

though  quite  the  lady,  and  where  will  you  find  a 
nattier  nursemaid  in  all  Bayswater  ?  " 

"Nowhere,"  assented  Lancelot,  automatically. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know  you'd  noticed  her  running  in 
to  see  'er  pore  old  mother  of  a  Sunday  arternoon," 
said  Mrs.  Leadbatter,  highly  gratified.  "  Well,  sir, 
I  won't  say  anything  about  the  hextry  gas,  though  a 
poor  widder  and  sevenpence  hextry  on  the  thousand, 
but  I'm  thinkin'  if  you  would  give  my  Rosie  a  lesson 
once  a  week  on  that  there  pianner,  it  would  be  a 
kind  of  set-off,  for  you  know,  sir,  the  policeman  tells 
me  your  winder  is  a  landmark  to  'im  on  the  foggiest 
nights." 

Lancelot  flushed,  then  wrinkled  his  brows.  This 
was  a  new  idea  altogether.  Mrs.  Leadbatter  stood 
waiting  for  his  reply,  with  a  deferential  smile  tem- 
pered by  asthmatic  contortions. 

"  But  have  you  got  a  piano  of  your  own  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  cried  Mrs.  Leadbatter,  almost  re- 
proachfully. 

"  Well ;  but  how  is  your  Rosie  to  practise  ?  One 
lesson  a  week  is  of  very  little  use  anyway,  but  unless 
she  practises  a  good  deal  it'll  only  be  a  waste  of 
time." 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  my  Rosie,"  said  Mrs.  Lead- 
batter, shaking  her  head  with  sceptical  pride.  "  You 
mustn't  judge  by  other  gels — -the  way  that  gel  picks 
up  things  is  —  well,  I'll  just  tell  you  what  'er  school- 
teacher, Miss  Whiteman  said.     She  says  —  " 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  393 

"My  good  lady,"  interrupted  Lancelot,  "I  practised 
six  hours  a  day  myself." 

"  Yes,  but  it  don't  come  so  natural  to  a  man,"  said 
Mrs.  Leadbatter,  unshaken.  "  And  it  don't  look 
natural  neither  to  see  a  man  playin'  the  pianner  —  it's 
like  seein'  him  knittin'." 

But  Lancelot  was  knitting  his  brows  in  a  way  that 
was  exceedingly  natural.  "  I  may  as  well  tell  you  at 
once  that  what  you  propose  is  impossible.  First  of 
all,  because  I  am  doubtful  whether  I  shall  remain 
in  these  rooms ;  and  secondly,  because  I  am  giving 
up  the  piano  immediately.  I  only  have  it  on  hire, 
and  I  —  I  —  "     He  felt  himself  blushing. 

"  Oh,  what  a  pity  !  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Leadbatter. 
"  You  might  as  well  let  me  go  on  payin'  the  hinstal- 
ments,  instead  of  lettin'  all  you've  paid  go  for  noth- 
ing. Rosie  ain't  got  much  time,  but  I  could  allow  'er 
a  'our  a  day  if  it  was  my  own  pianner." 

Lancelot  explained  "hire"  did  not  mean  the  "hire 
system."  But  the  idea  of  acquiring  the  piano,  having 
once  fired  Mrs.  Leadbatter's  brain,  could  not  be 
extinguished.  The  unexpected  conclusion  arrived 
at  was  that  she  was  to  purchase  the  piano  on  the 
hire  system,  allowing  it  to  stand  in  Lancelot's  room, 
and  that  five  shillings  a  week  should  be  taken  off  his 
rent  in  return  for  six  lessons  of  an  hour  each,  one 
of  the  hours  counterbalancing  the  gas  grievance. 
Reviewing  the  bargain,  when  Mrs.  Leadbatter  was 
gone,  Lancelot  did  not  think  it  at  all  bad  for  him. 


394  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"  Use  of  the  piano.  Gas,"  he  murmured,  with  a 
pathetic  smile,  recalling  the  advertisements  he  had 
read  before  lighting  on  Mrs.  Leadbatter's.  "  And 
five  shillings  a  week  —  it's  a  considerable  relief  ! 
There's  no  loss  of  dignity  either  —  for  nobody  will 
know.  But  I  wonder  what  the  governor  would  have 
said  !  " 

The  thought  shook  him  with  silent  laughter ;  a 
spectator  might  have  fancied  he  was  sobbing. 

But,  after  the  lessons  began,  it  might  almost  be 
said  it  was  only  when  a  spectator  was  present  that  he 
was  not  sobbing.  For  Rosie,  who  was  an  awkward, 
ungraceful  young  person,  proved  to  be  the  dullest 
and  most  butter-fingered  pupil  ever  invented  for 
the  torture  of  teachers;  at  least,  so  Lancelot  thought, 
but  then  he  had  never  had  any  other  pupils,  and  was 
not  patient.  It  must  be  admitted,  though,  that 
Rosie  giggled  perpetually,  apparently  finding  end- 
less humour  in  her  own  mistakes.  But  the  climax 
of  the  horror  was  the  attendance  of  Mrs.  Leadbatter 
at  the  lessons,  for,  to  Lancelot's  consternation,  she 
took  it  for  granted  that  her  presence  was  part  of 
the  contract.  She  marched  into  the  room  in  her  best 
cap,  and  sat,  smiling,  in  the  easy  chair,  wheezing 
complacently  and  beating  time  with  her  foot.  Oc- 
casionally she  would  supplement  Lancelot's  critical 
observations. 

"  It  ain't  as  I  fears  to  trust  'er  with  you,  sir,"  she 
also    remarked    about   three   times   a  week,    "  for  I 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  395 

knows,  sir,  you're  a  gentleman.  But  it's  the  neigh- 
bours ;  they  never  can  mind  their  own  business.  I 
told  'em  you  was  going  to  give  my  Rosie  lessons, 
and  you  know,  sir,  that  they  will  talk  of  what  don't 
concern  'em.  And,  after  all,  sir,  it's  an  hour,  and  an 
hour  is  sixty  minutes,  ain't  it,  sir?" 

And  Lancelot,  groaning  inwardly,  and  unable  to 
deny  this  chronometry,  felt  that  an  ironic  Provi- 
dence was  punishing  him  for  his  attentions  to  Mary 
Ann. 

And  yet  he  only  felt  more  tenderly  towards  Mary 
Ann.  •  Contrasted  with  these  two  vulgar  females, 
whom  he  came  to  conceive  as  her  oppressors,  sitting 
in  gauds  and  finery,  and  taking  lessons  which  had 
better  befitted  their  Cinderella  —  the  figure  of  Mary 
Ann  definitely  reassumed  some  of  its  antediluvian 
poetry,  if  we  may  apply  the  adjective  to  that  catas- 
trophic washing  of  the  steps.  And  Mary  Ann  her- 
self had  grown  gloomier  —  once  or  twice  he  thought 
she  had  been  crying,  though  he  was  too  numbed  and 
apathetic  to  ask,  and  was  incapable  of  suspecting 
that  Rosie  had  anything  to  do  with  her  tears.  He 
hardly  noticed  that  Rosie  had  taken  to  feeding  the 
canary ;  the  question  of  how  he  should  feed  himself 
was  becoming  every  day  more  and  more  menacing. 
He  saw  starvation  slowly  closing  in  upon  him  like 
the  walls  of  a  torture-chamber.  He  had  grown  quite 
familiar  with  the  pawn-shop  now,  though  he  still 
slipped  in  as  though  his  goods  were  stolen. 


396  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

And  at  last  there  came  a  moment  when  Lancelot 
felt  he  could  bear  it  no  longer.  And  then  he  sud- 
denly saw  daylight.  Why  should  he  teach  only 
Rosie  ?  Nay,  why  should  he  teach  Rosie  at  all  ?  If 
he  zuas  reduced  to  giving  lessons  —  and  after  all  it 
was  no  degradation  to  do  so,  no  abandonment  of  his 
artistic  ideal,  rather  a  solution  of  the  difficulty  so 
simple  that  he  wondered  it  had  not  occurred  to  him 
before  —  why  should  he  give  them  at  so  wretched  a 
price  ?  He  would  get  another  pupil,  other  pupils, 
who  would  enable  him  to  dispense  with  the  few  shil- 
lings he  made  by  Rosie.  He  would  not  ask  anybody 
to  recommend  him  pupils  —  there  was  no  need  for 
his  acquaintances  to  know,  and  if  he  asked  Peter, 
Peter  would  probably  play  him  some  philanthropic 
trick.     No,  he  would  advertise. 

After  he  had  spent  his  last  gold  breast-pin  in  ad- 
vertisements, he  realised  that  to  get  pianoforte  pupils 
in  London  was  as  easy  as  to  get  songs  published. 
By  the  time  he  quite  realised  it,  it  was  May,  and  then 
he  sat  down  to  realise  his  future. 

The  future  was  sublimely  simple  —  as  simple  as 
his  wardrobe  had  grown.  All  his  clothes  were  on 
his  back.  In  a  week  or  two  he  would  be  on  the 
streets  ;  for  a  poor  widow  could  not  be  expected  to 
lodge,  partially  board  (with  use  of  the  piano,  gas), 
an  absolutely  penniless  young  gentleman,  though  he 
combined  the  blood  of  twenty  county  families  with 
the  genius  of  a  pleiad  of  tone  poets. 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  397 

There  was  only  one  bright  spot  in  the  prospect. 
Rosie's  lessons  would  come  to  an  end. 

What  he  would  do  when  he  got  on  the  streets  was 
not  so  clear  as  the  rest  of  this  prophetic  vision.  He 
might  take  to  a  barrel-organ  —  but  that  would  be  a 
cruel  waste  of  his  artistic  touch.  Perhaps  he  would 
die  on  a  doorstep,  like  the  professor  of  many  lan- 
guages, whose  starvation  was  recorded  in  that  very 
morning's  paper. 

Thus,  driven  by  the  saturnine  necessity  that  sneers 
at  our  puny  resolutions,  Lancelot  began  to  meditate 
surrender.  For  surrender  of  some  sort  must  be  — 
either  of  life  or  ideal.  After  so  steadfast  and  pro- 
tracted a  struggle  —  oh,  it  was  cruel,  it  was  terrible; 
how  noble,  how  high-minded  he  had  been  ;  and  this 
was  how  the  fates  dealt  with  him  —  but  at  that 
moment  — 

"  Sw — eet,"  went  the  canary,  and  filled  the  room 
with  its  rapturous  demi-semi-quavers,  its  throat  swell- 
ing, its  little  body  throbbing  with  joy  of  the  sunshine. 
And  then  Lancelot  remembered  —  not  the  joy  of  the 
sunshine,  not  the  joy  of  life  —  no,  merely  Mary  Ann. 

Noble  !  high-minded  !  No,  let  Peter  think  that, 
let  posterity  think  that.  But  he  could  not  cozen  him- 
self thus  !  He  had  fallen — ■  horribly,  vulgarly.  How 
absurd  of  him  to  set  himself  up  as  a  saint,  a  martyr, 
an  idealist !  He  could  not  divide  himself  into  two 
compartments  like  that  and  pretend  that  only  one 
counted   in   his    character.      Who   was   he   to    talk 


398  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

of  dying  for  art  ?  No,  he  was  but  an  everyday 
man.  He  wanted  Mary  Ann  —  yes,  he  might  as  well 
admit  that  to  himself  now.  It  was  no  use  humbug- 
ging himself  any  longer.  Why  should  he  give  her 
up  ?  She  was  his  discovery,  his  treasure-trove, 
his  property. 

And  if  he  could  stoop  to  her,  why  should  he  not 
stoop  to  popular  work,  to  devilling,  to  anything  that 
would  rid  him  of  these  sordid  cares  ?  Bah !  away 
with  all  pretences ! 

Was  not  this  shamefaced  pawning  as  vulgar,  as 
wounding  to  the  artist's  soul  as  the  turning  out  of 
tawdry  melodies  ? 

Yes,  he  would  escape  from  Mrs.  Leadbatter  and 
her  Rosie  ;  he  would  write  to  that  popular  composer 
—  he  had  noticed  his  letter  lying  on  the  mantel- 
piece the  other  day  —  and  accept  the  fifty  pounds, 
and  whatever  he  did  he  could  do  anonymously,  so 
that  Peter  wouldn't  know,  after  all ;  he  would  escape 
from  this  wretched  den  and  take  a  flat  far  away, 
somewhere  where  nobody  knew  him,  and  there  he 
would  sit  and  work,  with  Mary  Ann  for  his  house- 
keeper. Poor  Mary  Ann  !  How  glad  she  would  be 
when  he  told  her  !  The  tears  came  into  his  eyes  as 
he  thought  of  her  na'i've  delight.  He  would  rescue 
her  from  this  horrid,  monotonous  slavery,  and  — 
happy  thought  —  he  would  have  her  to  give  lessons 
to  instead  of  Rosie. 

Yes,  he  would  refine   her ;  prune    away   all   that 


i 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  399 

reminded  him  of  her  wild  growth,  so  that  it  might 
no  longer  humiliate  him  to  think  to  what  a  companion 
he  had  sunk.  How  happy  they  would  be !  Of 
course  the  world  would  censure  him  if  it  knew,  but 
the  world  was  stupid  and  prosaic,  and  measured 
all  things  by  its  coarse  rule  of  thumb.  It  was  the 
best  thing  that  could  happen  to  Mary  Ann  —  the 
best  thing  in  the  world.  And  then  the  world  wouldn't 
know. 

"  Sw— eet,"  went  the  canary.     "  Sw — eet." 

This  time  the  joy  of  the  bird  penetrated  to  his  own 
soul  —  the  joy  of  life,  the  joy  of  the  sunshine.  He 
rang  the  bell  violently,  as  though  he  were  sounding 
a  clarion  of  defiance,  the  trumpet  of  youth. 

Mary  Ann  knocked  at  the  door,  came  in,  and  be- 
gan to  draw  on  her  gloves. 

He  was  in  a  mad  mood  —  the  incongruity  struck 
him  so  that  he  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 

Mary  Ann  paused,  flushed,  and  bit  her  lip.  -  The 
touch  of  resentment  he  had  never  noted  before  gave 
her  a  novel  charm,  spicing  her  simplicity. 

He  came  over  to  her  and  took  her  half-bare  hands. 
No,  they  were  not  so  terrible,  after  all.  Perhaps  she 
had  awakened  to  her  iniquities,  and  had  been  trying 
to  wash  them  white.  His  last  hesitation  as  to  her 
worthiness  to  live  with  him  vanished. 

"  Mary  Ann,"  he  said,  "  I'm  going  to  leave  these 
rooms." 

The  flush   deepened,  but   the  anger  faded.     She 


400  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

was  a  child  again  —  her  big  eyes  full  of  tears.  He 
felt  her  hands  tremble  in  his. 

"  Mary  Ann,"  he  went  on,  "  how  would  you  like 
me  to  take  you  with  me  ? " 

"  Do  you  mean  it,  sir? "  she  asked  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  dear."  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  used 
the  word.  The  blood  throbbed  madly  in  her  ears. 
"  If  you  will  come  with  me  —  and  be  my  little 
housekeeper  —  we  will  go  away  to  some  nice  spot, 
and  be  quite  alone  together  —  in  the  country  if  you 
like,  amid  the  foxglove  and  the  meadowsweet,  or  by 
the  green  waters,  where  you  shall  stand  in  the  sunset 
and  dream ;  and  I  will  teach  you  music  and  the 
piano"  —  her  eyes  dilated  —  "and  you  shall  not  do 
any  of  this  wretched  nasty  work  any  more.  What 
do  you  say  ?  " 

"  Sw — eet,  sw — eet,"  said  the  canary,  in  thrilling 
jubilation. 

Her  happiness  was  choking  her  —  she  could  not 
speak. 

"And  we  will  take  the  canary,  too  —  unless  I  say 
good-by  to  you  as  well." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  mustn't  leave  us  here  !  " 

"  And  then,"  he  said  slowly,  "  it  will  not  be 
good-by  —  nor  good-night.     Do  you  understand?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  breathed,  and  her  face  shone. 

"  But  think,  think,  Mary  Ann,"  he  said,  a  sudden 
pang  of  compunction  shooting  through  his  breast. 
He  released  her  hands.     "Do  you  understand?" 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  401 

"  I  understand  —  I  shall  be  with  you,  always." 

He  replied  uneasily,  "I  shall  look  after  you  — 
always." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  breathed.  Her  bosom  heaved. 
"Always." 

Then  his  very  first  impression  of  her  as  "  a  sort  of 
white  Topsy  "  recurred  to  him  suddenly  and  flashed 
into  speech. 

"  Mary  Ann,  I  don't  believe  you  know  how  you 
came  into  the  world.  I  dare  say  you  '  'specs  you 
growed.' " 

"No,  sir,"  said  Mary  Ann,  gravely;  "God  made 
me." 

That  shook  him  strangely  for  a  moment.  But  the 
canary  sang  on  :  — 

"  Sw-eet.     Sw-w-w-w-w-eet." 

Ill 

And  so  it  was  settled.  He  wrote  the  long-delayed 
answer  to  the  popular  composer,  found  him  still  will- 
ing to  give  out  his  orchestration,  and  they  met  by 
appointment  at  the  club. 

"  I've  got  hold  of  a  splendid  book,"  said  the  popular 
composer.  "Awfully  clever;  jolly  original.  Bound 
to  go  —  from  the  French,  you  know.  Haven't  had 
time  to  set  to  work  on  it  —  old  engagement  to  run 
over  to  Monte  Carlo  for  a  few  days  —  but  I'll  leave 
you  the  book ;  you  might  care  to  look  over  it.  And 
—  I  say  —  if  any  catchy  tunes  suggest  themselves  as 


402  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

you  go  along,  you  might  just  jot  them  down,  you 
know.  Not  worth  while  losing  an  idea ;  eh,  my 
boy  !  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  Well,  good-by.  See  you 
again  when  I  come  back ;  don't  suppose  I  shall  be 
away  more  than  a  month.  Good-by !  "  And,  hav- 
ing shaken  his  hand  with  tremendous  cordiality,  the 
popular  composer  rushed  downstairs  and  into  a 
hansom. 

Lancelot  walked  home  with  the  libretto  and  the 
five  five-pound  notes.  He  asked  for  Mrs.  Lead- 
batter,  and  gave  her  a  week's  notice.  He  wanted 
to  drop  Rosie  immediately,  on  the  plea  of  pressure 
of  work,  but  her  mother  received  the  suggestion 
with  ill  grace,  and  said  that  Rosie  should  come  up 
and  practise  on  her  own  piano  all  the  same,  so  he 
yielded  to  the  complexities  of  the  situation,  and 
found  hope  a  wonderful  sweetener  of  suffering. 
Despite  Rosie  and  her  giggling,  and  Mrs.  Lead- 
batter  and  her  best  cap  and  her  asthma,  the  week 
went  by  almost  cheerfully.  He  worked  regularly  at 
the  comic  opera,  nearly  as  happy  as  the  canary  which 
sang  all  day  long,  and,  though  scarcely  a  word  more 
passed  between  him  and  Mary  Ann,  their  eyes  met 
ever  and  anon  in  the  consciousness  of  a  sweet  secret. 

It  was  already  Friday  afternoon.  He  gathered 
together  his  few  personal  belongings  —  his  books, 
his  manuscripts,  opera  innumerable.  There  was  room 
in  his  portmanteau  for  everything  —  now  he  had  no 
clothes.     On  the  Monday  the  long  nightmare  would 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  403 

be  over.  He  would  go  down  to  some  obscure  seaside 
nook  and  live  very  quietly  for  a  few  weeks,  and  gain 
strength  and  calm  in  the  soft  spring  airs,  and  watch 
hand-in-hand  with  Mary  Ann  the  rippling  scarlet 
trail  of  the  setting  sun  fade  across  the  green  waters. 
Life,  no  doubt,  would  be  hard  enough  still.  Strug- 
gles and  trials  enough  were  yet  before  him,  but  he 
would  not  think  of  that  now  —  enough  that  for  a 
month  or  two  there  would  be  bread  and  cheese  and 
kisses.  And  then,  in  the  midst  of  a  tender  reverie, 
with  his  hand  on  the  lid  of  his  portmanteau,  he  was 
awakened  by  ominous  sounds  of  objurgation  from  the 
kitchen. 

His  heart  stood  still.  He  went  down  a  few  stairs 
and  listened. 

"  Not  another  stroke  of  work  do  you  do  in  my 
house,  Mary  Ann  !  "  Then  there  was  silence,  save 
for  the  thumping  of  his  own  heart.  What  had  hap- 
pened ? 

He  heard  Mrs.  Leadbatter  mounting  the  kitchen 
stairs,  wheezing  and  grumbling,  "  Well,  of  all  the 
sly  little  things  !  " 

Mary  Ann  had  been  discovered.  His  blood  ran 
cold  at  the  thought.  The  silly  creature  had  been 
unable  to  keep  the  secret. 

"  Not  a  word  about  'im  all  this  time.  Oh,  the  sly 
little  thing  !     Who  would  hever  a-believed  it  ?  " 

And  then,  in  the  intervals  of  Mrs.  Leadbatter' s 
groanings,  there  came  to  him  the  unmistakable  sound 


404  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

of  Mary  Ann  sobbing  —  violently,  hysterically.  He 
turned  from  cold  to  hot  in  a  fever  of  shame  and 
humiliation.  How  had  it  all  come  about  ?  Oh,  yes, 
he  could  guess.  The  gloves !  What  a  fool  he  had 
been !  Mrs.  Leadbatter  had  unearthed  the  box. 
Why  did  he  give  her  more  than  the  pair  that  could 
always  be  kept  hidden  in  her  pocket  ?  Yes,  it  was 
the  gloves.  And  then  there  was  the  canary.  Mrs. 
Leadbatter  had  suspected  he  was  leaving  her  for  a 
reason.  She  had  put  two  and  two  together,  she  had 
questioned  Mary  Ann,  and  the  ingenuous  little  idiot 
had  naively  told  her  he  was  going  to  take  her  with 
him.  It  didn't  really  matter,  of  course  ;  he  didn't 
suppose  Mrs.  Leadbatter  could  exercise  any  control 
over  Mary  Ann,  but  it  was  horrible  to  be  discussed 
by  her  and  Rosie ;  and  then  there  was  that  meddle- 
some vicar,  who  might  step  in  and  make  things 
nasty. 

.  Mrs.  Leadbatter's  steps  and  wheezes  and  grum- 
blings had  arrived  in  the  passage,  and  Lancelot 
hastily  stole  back  into  his  room,  his  heart  continuing 
to  flutter  painfully. 

He  heard  the  complex  noises  reach  his  landing, 
pass  by,  and  move  up  higher.  She  wasn't  coming 
in  to  him  then  ;  he  could  endure  the  suspense  no 
longer.  He  threw  open  his  door  and  said,  "  Is  there 
anything  the  matter  ?  " 

Mrs.  Leadbatter  paused  and  turned  her  head. 

"His   there    anything  the    matter!"    she   echoed, 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  405 

looking  down  upon  him.  "  A  nice  thing  when  a 
woman  's  troubled  with  hastmer  and  brought  'ome 
'er  daughter  to  take  'er  place,  that  she  should  'ave 
to  start  'untin'  afresh  !  " 

"  Why,  is  Rosie  going  away  ? "  he  said,  immeas- 
urably relieved. 

"  My  Rosie !  She's  the  best  girl  breathing.  It's 
that  there  Mary  Ann!" 

"  Wh-a-t !  "  he  stammered.  "  Mary  Ann  leaving 
you?" 

"  Well,  you  don't  suppose,"  replied  Mrs.  Lead- 
batter,  angrily,  "  as  I  can  keep  a  gel  in  my  kitchen 
as  is  a-goin'  to  'ave  'er  own  nors-end-kerridge !  " 

"  Her  own  horse  and  carriage !  "  repeated  Lance- 
lot, utterly  dazed.  "Whatever  are  you  talking 
about  ? " 

"Well  —  there's  the  letter!  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lead- 
batter,  indignantly.  "  See  for  yourself  if  you  don't 
believe  me.  I  don't  know  how  much  two  and  a  'arf 
million  dollars  is — but  it  sounds  unkimmonly  like  a 
nors-end-kerridge  —  and  never  said  a  word  about  'im 
the  whole  time,  the  sly  little  thing !  " 

The  universe  seemed  oscillating  so  that  he  grasped 
at  the  letter  like  a  drunken  man.  It  was  from  the 
vicar.     He  wrote  :  — 

"  I  have  much  pleasure  in  informing  you  that  our 
dear  Mary  Ann  is  the  fortunate  inheritress  of  two 
and  a  half  million  dollars  by  the  death  of  her  brother 
Tom,  who,  as  I  learn  from  the  lawyers  who  have  ap- 


406  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

plied  to  me  for  news  of  the  family,  has  just  died  in 
America,  leaving  his  money  to  his  surviving  relatives. 
He  was  rather  a  wild  young  man,  but  it  seems  he 
became  the  lucky  possessor  of  some  petroleum  wells 
which  made  him  wealthy  in  a  few  months.  I  pray 
God  Mary  Ann  may  make  a  better  use  of  the  money 
than  he  would  have  done.  I  want  you  to  break  the 
news  to  her,  please,  and  to  prepare  her  for  my  visit. 
As  I  have  to  preach  on  Sunday,  I  cannot  come  to 
town  before,  but  on  Monday  (D.V.)  I  shall  run  up  and 
shall  probably  take  her  back  with  me,  as  I  desire  to 
help  her  through  the  difficulties  that  will  attend  her 
entry  into  the  new  life.  How  pleased  you  will  be  to 
think  of  the  care  you  took  of  the  dear  child  during 
these  last  five  years.  I  hope  she  is  well  and  happy  ; 
I  think  you  omitted  to  write  to  me  last  Christmas  on 
the  subject.  Please  give  her  my  kindest  regards 
and  best  wishes  and  say  I  shall  be  with  her  (D.V.) 
on  Monday." 

The  words  swam  uncertainly  before  Lancelot's 
eyes,  but  he  got  through  them  all  at  last.  He  felt 
chilled  and  numbed.  He  averted  his  face  as  he 
handed  the  letter  back  to  Mary  Ann's  "  missus." 

"What  a  fortunate  girl!"  he  said  in  a  low,  stony 
voice. 

"  Fortunate  ain't  the  word  for  it !  The  mean,  sly 
little  cat !  Fancy  never  telling  me  a  word  about 
'er  brother  all  these  years  —  me  as  'as  fed  her,  and 
clothed  her,  and  lodged  her,  and  kepper  out  of    all 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  407 

mischief,  as  if  she'd  bin  my  own  daughter ;  never  let 
her  go  out  Bankhollidayin'  in  loose  company  —  as 
you  can  bear  witness  yourself,  sir  —  and  eddicated 
'er  out  of  'er  country  talk  and  rough  ways,  and  made 
'er  the  smart  young  woman  she  is,  fit  to  wait  on  the 
most  troublesome  of  gentlemen.  And  now  she'll  go 
away  and  say  I  used  'er  'arsh,  and  overworked  'er, 
and  Lord  knows  what,  don't  tell  me !  Oh,  my  poor 
chest!" 

"  I  think  you  may  make  your  mind  quite  easy,"  said 
Lancelot,  grimly.  "I'm  sure  Mary  Ann  is  perfectly 
satisfied  with  your  treatment." 

"But  she  ain't  —  there,  listen!  don't  you  hear  her 
going  on?"  Poor  Mary  Ann's  sobs  were  still  audi- 
ble, though  exhaustion  was  making  them  momently 
weaker.  "  She's  been  going  on  like  that  ever  since  I 
broke  the  news  to  'er  and  gave  her  a  piece  of  my  mind 
—  the  sly  little  cat !  She  wanted  to  go  on  scrubbing 
the  kitchen,  and  I  had  to  take  the  brush  away  by 
main  force.  A  nice  thing,  indeed !  A  gel  as  can 
keep  a  nors-end-kerridge  down  on  the  cold  kitchen 
stones  !  'Twasn't  likely  I  could  allow  that.  *  No, 
Mary  Ann,'  says  I,  firmly,  'you're  a  lady,  and  if  you 
don't  know  what's  proper  for  a  lady,  you'd  best 
listen  to  them  as  does.  You  go  and  buy  yourself  a 
dress  and  a  jacket  to  be  ready  for  that  vicar  who's 
been  a  real  good  kind  friend  to  you  ;  he's  coming  to 
take  you  away  on  Monday,  he  is,  and  how  will  you 
look  in  that  dirty  print  ?     Here's  a  suvrin,'  says  I, 


408  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

'  out  of  my  'ard-earned  savin's  —  and  get  a  pair  o'  boots, 
too:  you  can  git  a  sweet  pair  for  2s.  i  id.  at  Rack- 
straw's  afore  the  sale  closes,'  and  with  that  I  shoves 
the  suvrin  into  'er  hand  instead  o'  the  scrubbin'  brush, 
and  what  does  she  do  ?  Why,  busts  out  a-cryin'  and 
sits  on  the  damp  stones,  and  sobs,  and  sulks,  and 
stares  at  the  suvrin  in  her  hand  as  if  I'd  told  her  of  a 
funeral  instead  of  a  fortune !  "  concluded  Mrs.  Lead- 
batter,  alliteratively. 

"  But  you  did  —  her  brother's  death,"  said  Lancelot. 
"  That's  what  she's  crying  about." 

Mrs.  Leadbatter  was  taken  aback  by  this  obverse 
view  of  the  situation ;  but  recovering  herself,  she 
shook  her  head,  "/wouldn't  cry  for  no  brother  that 
lefme  to  starve  when  he  was  rollin'  in  two  and  a  'arf 
million  dollars,"  she  said  sceptically.  "And  I'm 
sure  my  Rosie  wouldn't.  But  she  never  'ad  nobody 
to  leave  her  money,  poor  dear  child,  except  me, 
please  Gaud.  It's  only  the  fools  as  'as  the  luck  in 
this  world."  And  having  thus  relieved  her  bosom, 
she  resumed  her  panting  progress  upwards. 

The  last  words  rang  on  in  Lancelot's  ears  long 
after  he  had  returned  to  his  room.  In  the  utter 
breakdown  and  confusion  of  his  plans  and  his  ideas, 
it  was  the  one  definite  thought  he  clung  to,  as  a 
swimmer  in  a  whirlpool  clings  to  a  rock.  His  brain 
refused  to  concentrate  itself  on  any  other  aspect  of 
the  situation  —  he  could  not,  would  not,  dared  not, 
think  of  anything  else.     He  knew  vaguely  he  ought 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  409 

to  rejoice  with  her  over  her  wonderful  stroke  of  luck, 
that  savoured  of  the  fairy-story,  but  everything  was 
swamped  by  that  one  almost  resentful  reflection.  Oh, 
the  irony  of  fate  !  Blind  fate  showering  torrents  of 
gold  upon  this  foolish,  babyish  household  drudge; 
who  was  all  emotion  and  animal  devotion,  without  the 
intellectual  outlook  of  a  Hottentot,  and  leaving  men 
of  genius  to  starve,  or  sell  their  souls  for  a  handful 
of  it!  How  was  the  wisdom  of  the  ages  justified! 
Verily  did  fortune  favour  fools.  And  Tom  —  the 
wicked  —  he  had  flourished  as  the  wicked  always  do, 
like  the  green  bay  tree,  as  the  Psalmist  discovered 
ever  so  many  centuries  ago. 

But  gradually  the  wave  of  bitterness  waned.  He 
found  himself  listening  placidly  and  attentively  to  the 
joyous  trills  and  roulades  of  the  canary,  till  the  light 
faded  and  the  grey  dusk  crept  into  the  room  and 
stilled  the  tiny  winged  lover  of  the  sunshine.  Then 
Beethoven  came  and  rubbed  himself  against  his 
master's  leg,  and  Lancelot  got  up,  as  one  wakes  from 
a  dream,  and  stretched  his  cramped  limbs  dazedly, 
and  rang  the  bell  mechanically  for  tea.  He  was  grop- 
ing on  the  mantel-piece  for  the  matches  when  the 
knock  at  the  door  came,  and  he  did  not  turn  round 
till  he  had  found  them.  He  struck  a  light,  expecting 
to  see  Mrs.  Leadbatter  or  Rosie.  He  started  to  find 
it  was  merely  Mary  Ann. 

But  she  was  no  longer  merely  Mary  Ann,  he 
remembered  with  another  shock.     She  loomed  large 


410  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

to  him  in  the  match-light  —  he  seemed  to  see  her 
through  a  golden  haze.  Tumultuous  images  of  her 
glorified  gilded  future  rose  and  mingled  dizzily  in  his 
brain. 

And  yet,  was  he  dreaming  ?  Surely  it  was  the 
same  Mary  Ann,  with  the  same  winsome  face  and 
the  same  large  pathetic  eyes,  ringed  though  they 
were  with  the  shadow  of  tears.  Mary  Ann,  in  her 
neat  white  cap — yes  —  and  in  her  tan  kid  gloves. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes.  Was  he  really  awake  ?  Or  — 
a  thought  still  more  dizzying  —  had\\Q  been  dream- 
ing ?  He  had  fallen  asleep  and  reinless  fancy  had 
played  him  the  fantastic  trick,  from  which,  cramped 
and  dazed,  he  had  just  awakened  to  the  old  sweet 
reality. 

"  Mary  Ann  !  "  he  cried  wildly.  The  lighted  match 
fell  from  his  fingers  and  burnt  itself  out  unheeded  on 
the  carpet. 

"  Yessir." 

"Is  it  true"  —  his  emotion  choked  him  —  "is  it 
true  you've  come  into  two  and  a  half  million  dollars  ?  " 

"Yessir,  and  I've  brought  you  some  tea." 

The  room  was  dark,  but  darkness  seemed  to  fall  on 
it  as  she  spoke. 

"  But  why  are  you  waiting  on  me,  then  ?  "  he  said 
slowly.     "  Don't  you  know  that  you  —  that  you  —  " 

"  Please,  Mr.  Lancelot,  I  wanted  to  come  in  and 
see  you." 

He  felt  himself  trembling. 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  411 

"  But  Mrs.  Leadbatter  told  me  she  wouldn't  let  you 
do  any  more  work." 

"  I  told  missus  that  I  must ;  I  told  her  she  couldn't 
get  another  girl  before  Monday,  if  then,  and  if  she 
didn't  let  me  I  wouldn't  buy  a  new  dress  and  a  pair 
of  boots  with  her  sovereign  —  it  isn't  suvrin,  is  it, 
sir  ? " 

"  No,"  murmured  Lancelot,  smiling  in  spite  of 
himself. 

"  With  her  sovereign.  And  I  said  I  would  be  all 
dirty  on  Monday." 

"But  what  can  you  get  for  a  sovereign?"  he 
asked  irrelevantly.  He  felt  his  mind  wandering 
away  from  him. 

"  Oh,  ever  such  a  pretty  dress  !  " 

The  picture  of  Mary  Ann  in  a  pretty  dress  painted 
itself  upon  the  darkness.  How  lovely  the  child 
would  look  in  some  creamy  white  evening  dress 
with  a  rose  in  her  hair.  He  wondered  that  in  all 
his  thoughts  of  their  future  he  had  never  dressed 
her  up  thus  in  fancy,  to  feast  his  eyes  on  the 
vision. 

"  And  so  the  vicar  will  find  you  in  a  pretty  dress," 
he  said  at  last. 

"  No,  sir." 

"  But  you  promised  Mrs.  Leadbatter  to  —  " 

"  I  promised  to  buy  a  dress  with  her  sovereign. 
But  I  shan't  be  here  when  the  vicar  comes.  He 
can't  come  till  the  afternoon." 


412  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"  Why,  where  will  you  be  ? "  he  said,  his  heart 
beginning  to  beat  fast. 

"  With  you,"  she  replied,  with  a  faint  accent  of 
surprise. 

He  steadied  himself  against  the  mantel-piece. 

"But  — "  he  began,  and  ended,  "is  that  honest?" 

He  dimly  descried  her  lips  pouting.  "  We  can 
always  send  her  another  when  we  have  one,"  she 
said. 

He  stood  there,  dumb,  glad  of  the  darkness. 

"  I  must  go  down  now,"  she  said.  "  I  mustn't  stay 
long." 

"  Why  ?  "  he  articulated. 

"  Rosie,"  she  replied  briefly. 

"  What  about  Rosie  ?  " 

"  She  watches  me  —  ever  since  she  came.  Don't 
you  understand  ? " 

This  time  he  was  the  dullard.  He  felt  an  extra 
quiver  of  repugnance  for  Rosie,  but  said  nothing, 
while  Mary  Ann  briskly  lit  the  gas,  and  threw  some 
coals  on  the  decaying  fire.  He  was  pleased  she  was 
going  down ;  he  was  suffocating ;  he  did  not  know 
what  to  say  to  her.  And  yet,  as  she  was  disappear- 
ing through  the  doorway,  he  had  a  sudden  feeling 
things  couldn't  be  allowed  to  remain  an  instant  in 
this  impossible  position. 

"  Mary  Ann  !  "  he  cried. 

"Yessir." 

She    turned    back  —  her    face   wore    merely   the 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  413 

expectant  expression  of  a  summoned  servant.  The 
childishness  of  her  behaviour  confused  him,  irritated 
him. 

"  Are  you  foolish  ? "  he  cried  suddenly ;  half  re- 
gretting the  phrase  the  instant  he  had  uttered  it. 

Her  lip  twitched. 

"  No,  Mr.  Lancelot !  "  she  faltered. 

"  But  you  talk  as  if  you  were,"  he  said  less  roughly. 
"  You  mustn't  run  away  from  the  vicar  just  when  he 
is  going  to  take  you  to  the  lawyer's  to  certify  who 
you  are,  and  see  that  you  get  your  money." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  go  with  the  vicar  —  I  want  to 
go  with  you.  You  said  you  would  take  me  with 
you."     She  was  almost  in  tears  now. 

"Yes  —  but  don't  you  —  don't  you  understand 
that  —  that,"  he  stammered;  then,  temporising,  "but 
I  can  wait." 

"  Can't  the  vicar  wait  ?  "  said  Mary  Ann.  He  had 
never  known  her  show  such  initiative. 

He  saw  that  it  was  hopeless  —  that  the  money  had 
made  no  more  dint  upon  her  consciousness  than  some 
vague  dream,  that  her  whole  being  was  set  towards 
the  new  life  with  him,  and  shrank  in  horror  from  the 
menace  of  the  vicar's  withdrawal  of  her  in  the 
opposite  direction.  If  joy  and  redemption  had  not 
already  lain  in  the  one  quarter,  the  advantages  of 
the  other  might  have  been  more  palpably  alluring. 
As  it  was,  her  consciousness  was  "  full  up "  in  the 
matter,  so  to  speak.     He  saw  that  he  must  tell  her 


414  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

plain  and  plump,  startle  her  out  of  her  simple 
confidence. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Mary  Ann." 

"Yessir." 

"  You  are  a  young  woman  —  not  a  baby.  Strive  to 
grasp  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you. " 

"Yessir,"  in  a  half  sob,  that  vibrated  with  the 
obstinate  resentment  of  a  child  that  knows  it  is 
to  be  argued  out  of  its  instincts  by  adult  sophistry. 
What  had  become  of  her  passive  personality  ? 

"  You  are  now  the  owner  of  two  and  a  half  million 
dollars —  that  is  about  five  hundred  thousand  pounds. 
Five  —  hundred  thousand  —  pounds.  Think  of  ten 
sovereigns  —  ten  golden  sovereigns  like  that  Mrs. 
Leadbatter  gave  you.  Then  ten  times  as  much  as 
that,  and  ten  times  as  much  as  all  that  "  —  he  spread 
his  arms  wider  and  wider  —  "  and  ten  times  as  much 
as  all  that,  and  then"  —  here  his  arms  were  pre- 
maturely horizontal,  so  he  concluded  hastily  but 
impressively,  — "  and  then  fifty  times  as  much  as 
all  that.       Do  you  understand  how  rich  you  are  ?  " 

"Yessir."  She  was  fumbling  nervously  at  her 
gloves,  half  drawing  them  off. 

"  Now  all  this  money  will  last  forever.  For  you 
invest  it  —  if  only  at  three  per  cent.  —  never  mind 
what  that  is  —  and  then  you  get  fifteen  thousand  a 
year  —  fifteen  thousand  golden  sovereigns  to  spend 
every  —  " 

"  Please,  sir,  I  must  go  now.     Rosie  !  " 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  415 

"  Oh,  but  you  can't  go  yet.  I  have  lots  more  to 
tell  you." 

"  Yessir  ;  but  can't  you  ring  for  me  again  ?  " 

In  the  gravity  of  the  crisis,  the  remark  tickled  him  ; 
he  laughed  with  a  strange  ring  in  his  laughter. 

"All  right;  run  away,  you  sly  little  puss." 

He  smiled  on  as  he  poured  out  his  tea ;  finding  a 
relief  in  prolonging  his  sense  of  the  humour  of  the 
suggestion,  but  his  heart  was  heavy,  and  his  brain 
a-whirl.     He  did  not  ring  again  till  he  had  finished  tea. 

She  came  in,  and  took  her  gloves  out  of  her  pocket. 

"  No  !  no!  "  he  cried,  strangely  exasperated.  "  An 
end  to  this  farce  !  Put  them  away.  You  don't  need 
gloves  any  more." 

She  squeezed  them  into  her  pocket  nervously,  and 
began  to  clear  away  the  things,  with  abrupt  move- 
ments, looking  askance  every  now  and  then  at  the 
overcast  handsome  face. 

At  last  he  nerved  himself  to  the  task  and  said  : 
"Well,  as  I  was  saying,  Mary  Ann,  the  first  thing 
for  you  to  think  of  is  to  make  sure  of  all  this  money 
—  this  fifteen  thousand  pounds  a  year.  You  see  you 
will  be  able  to  live  in  a  fine  manor  house  —  such  as 
the  squire  lived  in  in  your  village  —  surrounded  by 
a  lovely  park  with  a  lake  in  it  for  swans  and 
boats  —  " 

Mary  Ann  had  paused  in  her  work,  slop-basin  in 
hand.  The  concrete  details  were  beginning  to  take 
hold  of  her  imagination. 


416  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"  Oh,  but  I  should  like  a  farm  better,"  she  said. 
"  A  large  farm  with  great  pastures  and  ever  so  many- 
cows  and  pigs  and  outhouses,  and  a  —  oh,  just  like 
Atkinson's  farm.  And  meat  every  day,  with  pud- 
ding on  Sundays !  Oh,  if  father  was  alive,  wouldn't 
he  be  glad!" 

"Yes,  you  can  have  a  farm  —  anything  you  like." 

"  Oh,  how  lovely  !     A  piano  ?  " 

"Yes  —  six  pianos." 

"  And  you  will  learn  me  ?  " 

He  shuddered  and  hesitated. 

"Well —  I  can't  say,  Mary  Ann." 

"Why  not?  Why  won't  you?  You  said  you 
would  !     You  learn  Rosie." 

"  I  may  not  be  there,  you  see,"  he  said,  trying  to 
put  a  spice  of  playfulness  into  his  tones. 

"Oh,  but  you  will,"  she  said  feverishly.  "You 
will  take  me  there.  We  will  go  there  instead  of 
where  you  said — instead  of  the  green  waters."  Her 
eyes  were  wild  and  witching. 

He  groaned  inwardly. 

"  I  cannot  promise  you  now,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  Don't  you  see  that  everything  is  altered  ?  " 

"What's  altered?  You  are  here  and  here  am  I." 
Her  apprehension  made  her  almost  epigrammatic. 

"Ah,  but  you  are  quite  different  now,  Mary  Ann." 

"  I'm  not  —  I  want  to  be  with  you  just  the  same." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I  can't  take  you  with  me," 
he  said  decisively. 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  417 

"Why  not?"  She  caught  hold  of  his  arm  en- 
treatingly. 

"  You  are  not  the  same  Mary  Ann  —  to  other  peo- 
ple. You  are  a  somebody.  Before,  you  were  a  no- 
body. Nobody  cared  or  bothered  about  you  —  you 
were  no  more  than  a  dead  leaf  whirling  in  the  street." 

"Yes,  you  cared  and  bothered  about  me,"  she 
cried,  clinging  to  him. 

Her  gratitude  cut  him  like  a  knife.  "  The  eyes  of 
the  world  are  on  you  now,"  he  said.  "  People  will 
talk  about  you  if  you  go  away  with  me  now." 

"  Why  will  they  talk  about  me  ?  What  harm  shall 
I  do  them  ?  " 

Her  phrases  puzzled  him. 

"  I  don't  know  that  you  will  harm  them,"  he  said 
slowly,  "but  you  will  harm  yourself." 

"  How  will  I  harm  myself?"  she  persisted. 

"Well,  one  day,  you  will  want  a  —  a  husband. 
With  all  that  money  it  is  only  right  and  proper  you 
should  marry —  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Lancelot,  I  don't  want  a  husband.  I 
don't  want  to  marry.  I  should  never  want  to  go 
away  from  you." 

There  was  another  painful  silence.  He  sought 
refuge  in  a  brusque  playfulness. 

"I  see  you  understand  I'm  not  going  to  marry 
you." 

"  Yessir." 

He  felt  a  slight  relief. 

2E 


418  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"  Well,  then,"  he  said,  more  playfully  still.  "Sup- 
pose I  wanted  to  go  away  fcom  you,  Mary  Ann  ?" 

"  But  you  love  me,"  she  said,  unaff righted. 

He  started  back  perceptibly. 

After  a  moment,  he  replied,  still  playfully,  "  I 
never  said  so." 

"No,  sir;  but  —  but  — "  she  lowered  her  eyes; 
a  coquette  could  not  have  done  it  more  artlessly  — 
"but  I  —know  it." 

The  accusation  of  loving  her  set  all  his  suppressed 
repugnances  and  prejudices  bristling  in  contradictior.. 
He  cursed  the  weakness  that  had  got  him  into  this 
soul-racking  situation.  The  silence  clamoured  for 
him  to  speak  —  to  do  something. 

"  What  —  what  were  you  crying  about  before  ?  "  he 
said  abruptly. 

"I  —  I  don't  know,  sir,"  she  faltered. 

"  Was  it  Tom's  death  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  not  much.  I  did  think  of  him  black- 
berrying  with  me  and  our  little  Sally  —  but  then  he 
was  so  wicked !  It  must  have  been  what  missus 
said  ;  and  I  was  frightened  because  the  vicar  was 
coming  to  take  me  away  —  away  from  you ;  and 
then  —  oh,  I  don't  know  —  I  felt  —  I  couldn't  tell 
you  —  I  felt  I  must  cry  and  cry,  like  that  night  when 
—  "  she  paused  suddenly  and  looked  away. 

"  When,"  he  said  encouragingly. 

"  I  must  go  —  Rosie,"  she  murmured,  and  took  up 
the  tea-tray. 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  419 

"That  night  when  —  "  he  repeated  tenaciously. 

"When  you  first  kissed  me,"  she  said. 

He  blushed.  "That  —  that  made  you  cry!  "he 
stammered.     "  Why  ?  " 

"Please,  sir,  I  don't  know." 

"Mary  Ann,"  he  said  gravely,  "don't  you  see  that 
when  I  did  that  I  was  —  like  your  brother  Tom  ?  " 

"No,  sir.     Tom  didn't  kiss  me  like  that." 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  Mary  Ann  ;  I  mean  I  was 
wicked." 

Mary  Ann  stared  at  him. 

"  Don't  you  think  so,  Mary  Ann  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  sir.     You  were  very  good." 

"  No,  no,  Mary  Ann.     Don't  say  good." 

"  Ever  since  then  I  have  been  so  happy,"  she 
persisted. 

"  Oh,  that  was  because  you  were  wicked  too,"  he 
explained  grimly.  "  We  have  both  been  very  wicked, 
Mary  Ann  ;  and  so  we  had  better  part  now,  before 
we  get  more  wicked." 

She  stared  at  him  plaintively,  suspecting  a  lurking 
irony,  but  not  sure. 

"  But  you  didn't  mind  being  wicked  before !  "  she 
protested. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  I  mind  now.  It's  for  your  sake, 
Mary  Ann,  believe  me,  my  dear."  He  took  her  bare 
hand  kindly  and  felt  it  burning.  "  You're  a  very 
simple,  foolish  little  thing,  yes,  you  are.  Don't  cry. 
There's  no  harm  in  being  simple.     Why,  you  told  me 


420  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

yourself  how  silly  you  were  once  when  you  brought 
your  dying  mother  cakes  and  flowers  to  take  to  your 
dead  little  sister.  Well,  you're  just  as  foolish  and 
childish  now,  Mary  Ann,  though  you  don't  know  it 
any  more  than  you  did  then.  After  all  you're  only 
nineteen  —  I  found  it  out  from  the  vicar's  letter. 
But  a  time  will  come  —  yes,  I'll  warrant  in  only  a 
few  months'  time  you'll  see  how  wise  I  am  and  how 
sensible  you  have  been  to  be  guided  by  me.  I  never 
wished  you  any  harm,  Mary  Ann,  believe  me,  my 
dear,  I  never  did.  And  I  hope,  I  do  hope  so  much 
that  this  money  will  make  you  happy.  So  you  see 
you  mustn't  go  away  with  me  now  —  you  don't  want 
everybody  to  talk  of  you  as  they  did  of  your  brother 
Tom,  do  you,  dear  ?  Think  what  the  vicar  would 
say." 

But  Mary  Ann  had  broken  down  under  the  touch 
of  his  hand  and  the  gentleness  of  his  tones. 

"  I  was  a  dead  leaf  so  long,  I  don't  care !  "  she 
sobbed  passionately.  "  Nobody  never  bothered  to  call 
me  wicked  then.     Why  should  I  bother  now  ?  " 

Beneath  the  mingled  emotions  her  words  caused 
him  was  a  sense  of  surprise  at  her  recollection  of  his 
metaphor. 

"  Hush !  You're  a  silly  little  child,"  he  repeated 
sternly.  "  Hush  !  or  Mrs.  Leadbatter  will  hear  you." 
He  went  to  the  door  and  closed  it  tightly.  "  Listen, 
Mary  Ann !  Let  me  tell  you  once  for  all  that  even 
if  you  were  fool  enough  to  be  willing  to  go  with  me, 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  421 

I  wouldn't  take  you  with  me.  It  would  be  doing  you 
a  terrible  wrong." 

She  interrupted  him  quietly. 

"  Why  more  now  than  before  ?  " 

He  dropped  her  hand  as  if  stung,  and  turned  away. 
He  knew  he  could  not  answer  that  to  his  own  satis- 
faction, much  less  to  hers. 

"  You're  a  silly  little  baby,"  he  repeated  resent- 
fully. "  I  think  you  had  better  go  down  now. 
Missus  will  be  wondering." 

Mary  Ann's  sobs  grew  more  spasmodic.  "  You 
are  going  away  without  me,"  she  cried  hysterically. 

He  went  to  the  door  again,  as  if  apprehensive  of 
an  eavesdropper.  The  scene  was  becoming  terrible. 
The  passive  personality  had  developed  with  a  ven- 
geance. 

"  Hush,  hush  !  "  he  cried  imperatively. 

"  You  are  going  away  without  me.  I  shall  never 
see  you  again." 

"Be  sensible,  Mary  Ann.     You  will  be  — " 

"  You  won't  take  me  with  you." 

"  How  can  I  take  you  with  me  ? "  he  cried  bru- 
tally, losing  every  vestige  of  tenderness  for  this  dis- 
tressful vixen.  "  Don't  you  understand  that  it's 
impossible  —  unless  I  marry  you,"  he  concluded 
contemptuously. 

Mary  Ann's  sobs  ceased  for  a  moment. 

"  Can't  you  marry  me,  then  ?  "  she  said  plaintively. 

"  You  know  it  is  impossible,"  he  replied  curtly. 


422  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"Why  is  it  impossible?"  she  breathed. 

"  Because  —  "  He  saw  her  sobs  were  on  the  point 
of  breaking  out,  and  had  not  the  courage  to  hear 
them  afresh.  He  dared  not  wound  her  further  by 
telling  her  straight  out  that,  with  all  her  money, 
she  was  ridiculously  unfit  to  bear  his  name  —  that 
it  was  already  a  condescension  for  him  to  have 
offered  her  his  companionship  on  any  terms. 

He  resolved  to  temporise  again. 

"  Go  downstairs  now,  there's  a  good  girl ;  and 
I'll  tell  you  in  the  morning.  I'll  think  it  over. 
Go  to  bed  early  and  have  a  long,  nice  sleep  —  missus 
will  let  you  —  now.  It  isn't  Monday  yet;  we  have 
plenty  of  time  to  talk  it  over." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  large  appealing  eyes, 
uncertain,  but  calming  down. 

"  Do,  now,  there's  a  dear."  He  stroked  her  wet 
cheek  soothingly. 

"Yessir,"  and  almost  instinctively  she  put  up  her 
lips  for  a  good-night  kiss.  He  brushed  them  hastily 
with  his.  She  went  out  softly,  drying  her  eyes. 
His  own  grew  moist  —  he  was  touched  by  the  pathos 
of  her  implicit  trust.  The  soft  warmth  of  her  lips 
still  thrilled  him.  How  sweet  and  loving  she  was  ! 
The  little  dialogue  rang  in  his  brain. 

"  Can't  you  marry  me,  then  ?  " 

"You  know  it  is  impossible." 

"Why  is  it  impossible?" 

"  Because  —  " 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  423 

"  Because  what  ? "  an  audacious  voice  whispered. 
Why  should  he  not?  He  stilled  the  voice  but  it  re- 
fused to  be  silent  —  was  obdurate,  insistent,  like 
Mary  Ann  herself.  "Because  —  oh,  because  of  a 
hundred  things,"  he  told  it.  "  Because  she  is  no 
fit  mate  for  me  —  because  she  would  degrade  me, 
make  me  ridiculous  —  an  unfortunate  fortune-hunter, 
the  butt  of  the  witlings.  How  could  I  take  her  about 
as  my  wife?  How  could  she  receive  my  friends?. 
For  a  housekeeper  —  a  good,  loving  housekeeper  — 
she  is  perfection,  but  for  a  wife  —  my  wife  —  the 
companion  of  my  soul  —  impossible  !  " 

"  Why  is  it  impossible  ?  "  repeated  the  voice,  catch- 
ing up  the  cue.  And  then,  from  that  point,  the 
dialogue  began  afresh. 

"  Because  this,  and  because  that,  and  because 
the  other  —  in  short,  because  I  am  Lancelot  and  she 
is  merely  Mary  Ann." 

"  But  she  is  not  merely  Mary  Ann  any  longer," 
urged  the  voice. 

"  Yes,  for  all  her  money,  she  is  merely  Mary 
Ann.  And  am  I  to  sell  myself  for  her  money  — 
I  who  have  stood  out  so  nobly,  so  high-mindedly, 
through  all  these  years  of  privation  and  struggle  ? 
And  her  money  is  all  in  dollars.  Pah !  I  smell 
the  oil.  Struck  ile !  Of  all  things  in  the  world, 
her  brother  should  just  go  and  strike  ile  !  "  A  great 
shudder  traversed  his  form.  "  Everything  seems 
to  have  been  arranged  out  of  pure  cussedness,  just 


424  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

to  spite  me.  She  would  have  been  happier  without 
the  money,  poor  child  —  without  the  money,  but 
with  me.  What  will  she  do  with  all  her  riches? 
She  will  only  be  wretched  —  like  me." 

"  Then  why  not  be  happy  together  ?  " 

"  Impossible." 

"Why  is  it  impossible?" 

"Because  her  dollars  would  stick  in  my  throat  — 
.the  oil  would  make  me  sick.  And  what  would  Peter 
say,  and  my  brother  (not  that  I  care  what  he  says), 
and  my  acquaintances  ?  " 

"  What  does  that  matter  to  you  ?  While  you  were 
a  dead  leaf  nobody  bothered  to  talk  about  you  ;  they 
let  you  starve — you,  with  your  genius  —  now  you 
can  let  them  talk  —  you,  with  your  heiress.  Five 
hundred  thousand  pounds.  More  than  you  will  make 
with  all  your  operas  if  you  live  a  century.  Fifteen 
thousand  a  year.  Why,  you  could  have  all  your 
works  performed  at  your  own  expense,  and  for  your 
own  sole  pleasure  if  you  chose,  as  the  King  of  Ba- 
varia listened  to  Wagner's  operas.  You  could  de- 
vote your  life  to  the  highest  art  —  nay,  is  it  not  a 
duty  you  owe  to  the  world  ?  Would  it  not  be  a  crime 
against  the  future  to  draggle  your  wings  with  sordid 
cares,  to  sink  to  lower  aims  by  refusing  this  Heaven- 
sent boon  ?  " 

The  thought  clung  to  him.  He  rose  and  laid  out 
heaps  of  muddled  manuscript  —  opera  disjecta  —  and 
turned  their  pages. 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  425 

r 

"Yes  —  yes  —  give  us  life!"  they  seemed  to  cry 
to  him.  "  We  are  dead  drops  of  ink,  wake  us  to  life 
and  beauty.  How  much  longer  are  we  to  lie  here, 
dusty  in  death  ?  We  have  waited  so  patiently  — 
have  pity  on  us,  raise  us  up  from  our  silent  tomb,  and 
we  will  fly  abroad  through  the  whole  earth,  chanting 
your  glory ;  yea,  the  world  shall  be  filled  to  eternity 
with  the  echoes  of  our  music  and  the  splendour  of 
your  name." 

But  he  shook  his  head  and  sighed,  and  put  them 
back  in  their  niches,  and  placed  the  comic  opera  he 
had  begun  in  the  centre  of  the  table. 

"  There  lie  the  only  dollars  that  will  ever  come  my 
way,"  he  said  aloud.  And,  humming  the  opening 
bars  of  a  lively  polka  from  the  manuscript,  he  took 
up  his  pen  and  added  a  few  notes.  Then  he  paused  ; 
the  polka  would  not  come — the  other  voice  was 
louder. 

"  It  would  be  a  degradation,"  he  repeated,  to  si- 
lence it.  "  It  would  be  merely  for  her  money.  I 
don't  love  her." 

"  Are  you  so  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"  If  I  really  loved  her  I  shouldn't  refuse  to  marry 
her." 

"  Are  you  so  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"What's  the  use  of  all  this  wire-drawing?  —  the 
whole  thing  is  impossible." 

"  Why  is  it  impossible  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently,  refusing  to 


426  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

be  drawn  back  into  the  eddy,  and  completed  the  bar 
of  the  polka. 

Then  he  threw  down  his  pen,  rose  and  paced  the 
room  in  desperation. 

"Was  ever  any  man  in  such  a  dilemma  ? "  he  cried 
aloud. 

"Did  ever  any  man  get  such  a  chance?"  retorted 
his  silent  tormentor. 

"  Yes,  but  I  mustn't  seize  the  chance  —  it  would  be 
mean." 

"  It  would  be  meaner  not  to.  You're  not  thinking 
of  that  poor  girl  —  only  of  yourself.  To  leave  her 
now  would  be  more  cowardly  than  to  have  left  her 
when  she  was  merely  Mary  Ann.  She  needs  you 
even  more  now  that  she  will  be  surrounded  by  sharks 
and  adventurers.  Poor,  poor  Mary  Ann !  It  is  you 
who  have  the  right  to  protect  her  now ;  you  were 
kind  to  her  when  the  world  forgot  her.  You  owe  it 
to  yourself  to  continue  to  be  good  to  her." 

"  No,  no,  I  won't  humbug  myself.  If  I  married 
her  it  would  only  be  for  her  money." 

"  No,  no,  don't  humbug  yourself.  You  like  her. 
You  care  for  her  very  much.  You  are  thrilling  at 
this  very  moment  with  the  remembrance  of  her  lips 
to-night.  Think  of  what  life  will  be  with  her  —  life 
full  of  all  that  is  sweet  and  fair  —  love  and  riches, 
and  leisure  for  the  highest  art,  and  fame  and  the 
promise  of  immortality.  You  are  irritable,  sensitive, 
delicately   organised ;    these    sordid,    carking    cares, 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  427 

these  wretched  struggles,  these  perpetual  abasements 
of  your  highest  self  —  a  few  more  years  of  them  — 
they  will  wreck  and  ruin  you,  body  and  soul.  How 
many  men  of  genius  have  married  their  housekeepers 
even  —  good,  clumsy,  homely  bodies,  who  have  kept 
their  husband's  brain  calm  and  his  pillow  smooth. 
And  again,  a  man  of  genius  is  the  one  man  who  can 
marry  anybody.  The  world  expects  him  to  be  eccen- 
tric. And  Mary  Ann  is  no  coarse  city  weed,  but 
a  sweet  country  bud.  How  splendid  will  be  her 
blossoming  under  the  sun  !  Do  not  fear  that  she 
will  ever  shame  you ;  she  will  look  beautiful,  and 
men  will  not  ask  her  to  talk.  Nor  will  you  want  her 
to  talk.  She  will  sit  silent  in  the  cosy  room  where 
you  are  working,  and  every  now  and  again  you  will 
glance  up  from  your  work  at  her  and  draw  inspira- 
tion from  her  sweet  presence.  So  pull  yourself 
together,  man  ;  your  troubles  are  over,  and  life  hence- 
forth one  long  blissful  dream.  Come,  burn  me  that 
tinkling,  inglorious  comic  opera,  and  let  the  whole 
sordid  past  mingle  with  its  ashes." 

So  strong  was  the  impulse  —  so  alluring  the  pic- 
ture—  that  he  took  up  the  comic  opera  and  walked 
towards  the  fire,  his  finger  itching  to  throw  it  in. 
But  he  sat  down  again  after  a  moment  and  went  on 
with  his  work.  It  was  imperative  he  should  make 
progress  with  it;  he  could  not  afford  to  waste  his 
time — which  was  money  —  because  another  person 
—  Mary  Ann  to  wit  —  had  come  into  a  superfluity  of 


428  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

both.  In  spite  of  which  the  comic  opera  refused  to 
advance  ;  somehow  he  did  not  feel  in  the  mood  for 
gaiety ;  he  threw  down  his  pen  in  despair  and  dis- 
gust. But  the  idea  of  not  being  able  to  work  rankled 
in  him.  Every  hour  seemed  suddenly  precious  — 
now  that  he  had  resolved  to  make  money  in  earnest 
—  now  that  for  a  year  or  two  he  could  have  no  other 
aim  or  interest  in  life.  Perhaps  it  was  that  he  wished 
to  overpower  the  din  of  contending  thoughts.  Then 
a  happy  thought  came  to  him.  He  rummaged  out 
Peter's  ballad.  He  would  write  a  song  on  the  model 
of  that,  as  Peter  had  recommended  —  something  taw- 
dry and  sentimental,  with  a  cheap  accompaniment. 
He  placed  the  ballad  on  the  rest  and  started  going 
through  it  to  get  himself  in  the  vein.  But  to-night 
the  air  seemed  to  breathe  an  ineffable  melancholy,  the 
words  —  no  longer  mawkish  —  had    grown  infinitely 

pathetic  :  — 

"  Kiss  me,  good-night,  dear  love, 
Dream  of  the  old  delight ; 
My  spirit  is  summoned  above, 
Kiss  me,  dear  love,  good-night  ! " 

The  hot  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks,  as  he  touched 
the  keys  softly  and  lingeringly.  He  could  go  no 
farther  than  the  refrain  ;  he  leant  his  elbows  on  the 
keyboard,  and  dropped  his  head  upon  his  arms.  The 
clashing  notes  jarred  like  a  hoarse  cry,  then  vibrated 
slowly  away  into  a  silence  that  was  broken  only  by 
his  sobs. 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  429 

He  rose  late  the  next  day,  after  a  sleep  that  was 
one  prolonged  nightmare,  full  of  agonised,  abortive 
striving  after  something  that  always  eluded  him,  he 
knew  not  what.  And  when  he  woke  —  after  a  mo- 
mentary breath  of  relief  at  the  thought  of  the  un- 
reality of  these  vague  horrors  —  he  woke  to  the 
heavier  nightmare  of  reality.  Oh,  those  terrible 
dollars  ! 

He  drew  the  blind,  and  saw  with  a  dull  acquiescence 
that  the  brightness  of  May  had  fled.  The  wind  was 
high  —  he  heard  it  fly  past,  moaning.  In  the  watery 
sky,  the  round  sun  loomed  silver-pale  and  blurred. 
To  his  fevered  eye  it  looked  like  a  worn  dollar. 

He  turned  away,  shivering,  and  began  to  dress. 
He  opened  the  door  a  little,  and  pulled  in  his  lace-up 
boots,  which  were  polished  in  the  highest  style  of 
art.  But  when  he  tried  to  put  one  on,  his  toes  stuck 
fast  in  the  opening,  and  refused  to  advance.  An- 
noyed, he  put  his  hand  in,  and  drew  out  a  pair  of 
tan  gloves,  perfectly  new.  Astonished,  he  inserted 
his  hand  again  and  drew  out  another  pair,  then 
another.  Reddening  uncomfortably,  for  he  divined 
something  of  the  meaning,  he  examined  the  left  boot, 
and  drew  out  three  more  pairs  of  gloves,  two  new 
and  one  slightly  soiled. 

He  sank  down,  half  dressed,  on  the  bed  with  his  head 
on  his  breast,  leaving  his  boots  and  Mary  Ann's  gloves 
scattered  about  the  floor.  He  was  angry,  humiliated  ; 
he  felt  like  laughing,  and  he  felt  like  sobbing. 


430  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

At  last  he  roused  himself,  finished  dressing,  and 
rang  for  breakfast.     Rosie  brought  it  up. 

"  Hullo  !     Where's  Mary  Ann  ?  "  he  said  lightly. 

"  She's  above  work  now,"  said  Rosie,  with  an 
unamiable  laugh.     "  You  know  about  her  fortune." 

"  Yes  ;  but  your  mother  told  me  she  insisted  on 
going  about  her  work  till  Monday." 

"So  she  said  yesterday  —  silly  little  thing!  But 
to-day  she  says  she'll  only  help  mother  in  the  kitchen 
—  and  do  all  the  boots  of  a  morning.  She  won't  do 
any  more  waiting." 

"Ah  !  "  said  Lancelot,  crumbling  his  toast. 

"  I  don't  believe  she  knows  what  she  wants,"  con- 
cluded Rosie,  turning  to  go. 

"Then  I  suppose  she's  in  the  kitchen  now?"  he 
said,  pouring  out  his  coffee  down  the  side  of  his 
cup. 

"  No,  she's  gone  out  now,  sir." 

"Gone  out!"  He  put  down  the  coffee-pot — his 
saucer  was  full.     "  Gone  out  where  ?  " 

"  Only  to  buy  things.  You  know  her  vicar  is  com- 
ing to  take  her  away  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and 
mother  wanted  her  to  look  tidy  enough  to  travel  with 
the  vicar ;  so  she  gave  her  a  sovereign." 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  your  mother  said  something  about  it." 

"  And  yet  she  won't  answer  the  bells,"  said  Rosie, 
"  and  mother's  asthma  is  worse,  so  I  don't  know 
whether  I  shall  be  able  to  take  my  lesson  to-day,  Mr. 
Lancelot.     I'm  so  sorry,  because  it's  the  last." 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  431 

Rosie  probably  did  not  intend  the  ambiguity  of  the 
phrase.     There  was  real  regret  in  her  voice. 

"  Do  you  like  learning,  then  ?  "  said  Lancelot,  soft- 
ened, for  the  first  time,  towards  his  pupil.  His 
nerves  seemed  strangely  flaccid  to-day.  He  did  not 
at  all  feel  the  relief  he  should  have  felt  at  forgoing 
his  daily  infliction. 

"  Ever  so  much,  sir.  I  know  I  laugh  too  much, 
sometimes  ;  but  I  don't  mean  it,  sir.  I  suppose  I 
couldn't  go  on  with  the  lessons  after  you  leave 
here  ?  "     She  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

"Well"  —  he  had  crumbled  the  toast  all  to  little 
pieces  now  —  "I  don't  quite  know.  Perhaps  I  shan't 
go  away  after  all." 

Rosie's  face  lit  up.  "  Oh,  I'll  tell  mother,"  she 
exclaimed  joyously. 

"  No,  don't  tell  her  yet;  I  haven't  quite  settled. 
But  if  I  stay  —  of  course  the  lessons  can  go  on  as 
before." 

"  Oh,  I  do  hope  you'll  stay,"  said  Rosie,  and  went 
out  of  the  room  with  airy  steps,  evidently  bent  on 
disregarding  his  prohibition,  if,  indeed,  it  had  pene- 
trated to  her  consciousness. 

Lancelot  made  no  pretence  of  eating  breakfast ; 
he  had  it  removed,  and  then  fished  out  his  comic 
opera.  But  nothing  would  flow  from  his  pen ;  he 
went  over  to  the  window,  and  stood  thoughtfully 
drumming  on  the  panes  with  it,  and  gazing  at  the 
little  drab-coloured  street,  with  its  high  roof  of  mist, 


432  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

along  which  the  faded  dollar  continued  to  spin  im- 
perceptibly. Suddenly  he  saw  Mary  Ann  turn  the 
corner,  and  come  along  towards  the  house,  carrying  a 
big  parcel  and  a  paper  bag  in  her  ungloved  hands. 
How  buoyantly  she  walked  !  He  had  never  before 
seen  her  move  in  free  space,  nor  realised  how  much 
of  the  grace  of  a  sylvan  childhood  remained  with  her 
still.  What  a  pretty  colour  there  was  on  her  cheeks, 
too! 

He  ran  down  to  the  street  door  and  opened  it  be- 
fore she  could  knock.  The  colour  on  her  cheeks 
deepened  at  the  sight  of  him,  but  now  that  she  was 
near  he  saw  her  eyes  were  swollen  with  crying. 

"  Why  do  you  go  out  without  gloves,  Mary  Ann  ?  " 
he  inquired  sternly.     "Remember  you're  a  lady  now." 

She  started  and  looked  down  at  his  boots,  then  up 
at  his  face. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  found  them,  Mary  Ann.  A  nice  grace- 
ful way  of  returning  me  my  presents,  Mary  Ann. 
You  might  at  least  have  waited  till  Christmas.  Then 
I  should  have  thought  Santa  Claus  sent  them." 

"  Please,  sir,  I  thought  it  was  the  surest  way  for 
me  to  send  them  back." 

"  But  what  made  you  send  them  back  at  all  ?  " 

Mary  Ann's  lip  quivered,  her  eyes  were  cast  down. 
"Oh  —  Mr.  Lancelot  —  you  know,"  she  faltered. 

"  But  I  don't  know,"  he  said  sharply. 

"  Please  let  me  go  downstairs,  Mr.  Lancelot. 
Missus  must  have  heard  me  come  in." 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  433 

"  You  shan't  go  downstairs  till  you've  told  me 
what's  come  over  you.      Come  upstairs  to  my  room." 

"  Yessir." 

She  followed  him  obediently.  He  turned  round 
brusquely,  "Here,  give  me  your  parcels."  And 
almost  snatching  them  from  her,  he  carried  them 
upstairs  and  deposited  them  on  his  table  on  top  of 
the  comic  opera. 

"  Now,  then,  sit  down.  You  can  take  off  your  hat 
and  jacket." 

"Yessir." 

He  helped  her  to  do  so. 

"  Now,  Mary  Ann,  why  did  you  return  me  those 
gloves  ? " 

"  Please,  sir,  I  remember  in  our  village  when  — 
when  "  —  she  felt  a  diffidence  in  putting  the  situation 
into  words  and  wound  up  quickly,  "  something  told 
me  I  ought  to." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  he  grumbled,  compre- 
hending only  too  well.  "  But  why  couldn't  you  come 
in  and  give  them  to  me  instead  of  behaving  in  that 
ridiculous  way  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  want  to  see  you  again,"  she  faltered. 

He  saw  her  eyes  were  welling  over  with  tears. 

"You  were  crying  again  last  night,"  he  said 
sharply. 

"Yessir." 

"  But  what  did  you  have  to  cry  about  now  ?  Aren't 
you  the  luckiest  girl  in  the  world  ?  " 


43-4  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

"  Yessir." 

As  she  spoke  a  flood  of  sunlight  poured  suddenly 
into  the  room ;  the  sun  had  broken  through  the 
clouds,  the  worn  dollar  had  become  a  dazzling  gold- 
piece.     The  canary  stirred  in  its  cage. 

"Then  what  were  you  crying  about?" 

"  I  didn't  want  to  be  lucky." 

"You  silly  girl — I  have  no  patience  with  you. 
And  why  didn't  you  want  to  see  me  again  ?  " 

"  Please,  Mr.  Lancelot,  I  knew  you  wouldn't  like  it." 

"  Whatever  put  that  into  your  head  ?  " 

"  I  knew  it,  sir,"  said  Mary  Ann,  firmly.  "  It  came 
to  me  when  I  was  crying.  I  was  thinking  of  all  sorts 
of  things  —  of  my  mother  and  our  Sally,  and  the  old 
pig  that  used  to  get  so  savage,  and  about  the  way  the 
organ  used  to  play  in  church,  and  then  all  at  once 
somehow  I  knew  it  would  be  best  for  me  to  do  what 
you  told  me  —  to  buy  my  dress  and  go  back  with  the 
vicar,  and  be  a  good  girl,  and  not  bother  you,  because 
you  were  so  good  to  me,  and  it  was  wrong  for  me  to 
worry  you  and  make  you  miserable." 

"Tw-oo  !  Tw-oo  !  "  It  was  the  canary  starting  on 
a  preliminary  carol. 

"  So  I  thought  it  best,"  she  concluded  tremulously, 
"  not  to  see  you  again.  It  would  only  be  two  days, 
and  after  that  it  would  be  easier.  I  could  always  be 
thinking  of  you  just  the  same,  Mr.  Lancelot,  always. 
That  wouldn't  annoy  you,  sir,  would  it  ?  Because 
you  know,  sir,  you  wouldn't  know  it." 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  435 

Lancelot  was  struggling  to  find  a  voice.  "  But 
didn't  you  forget  something  you  had  to  do,  Mary 
Ann  ?  "  he  said  in  hoarse  accents. 

She  raised  her  eyes  swiftly  a  moment,  then  lowered 
them  again. 

"I  don't  know;  I  didn't  mean  to,"  she  said  apolo- 
getically. 

"  Didn't  you  forget  that  I  told  you  to  come  to  me 
and  get  my  answer  to  your  question  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  didn't  forget.  That  was  what  I  was 
thinking  of  all  night." 

"  About  your  asking  me  to  marry  you  ?  " 

"  Yessir." 

"  And  my  saying  it  was  impossible  ?  " 

"  Yessir,  and  I  said,  '  Why  is  it  impossible  ? '  and 
you  said,  'Because  —  'and  then  you  left  off;  but 
please,  Mr.  Lancelot,  I  didn't  want  to  know  the 
answer  this  morning." 

"  But  I  want  to  tell  you.  Why  don't  you  want  to 
know?  " 

"  Because  I  found  out  for  myself,  Mr.  Lancelot. 
That's  what  I  found  out  when  I  was  crying  —  but 
there  was  nothing  to  find  out,  sir.  I  knew  it  all 
along.  It  was  silly  of  me  to  ask  you  —  but  you  know 
I  am  silly  sometimes,  sir,  like  I  was  when  my  mother 
was  dying.  And  that  was  why  I  made  up  my  mind 
not  to  bother  you  any  more,  Mr.  Lancelot,  I  knew 
you  wouldn't  like  to  tell  me  straight  out." 

"  And  what  was  the  answer  you  found  out  ?     Ah, 


436  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

you  won't  speak.  It  looks  as  if  you  don't  like  to  tell 
me  straight  out.  Come,  come,  Mary  Ann,  tell  me 
why  —  why  —  it  is  impossible." 

She  looked  up  at  last  and  said  slowly  and  simply, 
"  Because  I  am  not  good  enough  for  you,  Mr.  Lance- 
lot." 

He  put  his  hands  suddenly  to  his  eyes.  He  did 
not  see  the  flood  of  sunlight  —  he  did  not  hear  the 
mad  jubilance  of  the  canary. 

"  No,  Mary  Ann,"  his  voice  was  low  and  trembling. 
"  I  will  tell  you  why  it  is  impossible,  I  didn't  know 
last  night,  but  I  know  now.  It  is  impossible, 
because  —  you  are  right,  I  don't  like  to  tell  you 
straight  out." 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide,  and  stared  at  him  in 
puzzled  expectation. 

"  Mary  Ann,"  he  bent  his  head,  "  it  is  impos- 
sible—  because  I  am  not  good  enough  for  you." 

Mary  Ann  grew  scarlet.  Then  she  broke  into  a 
little  nervous  laugh.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Lancelot,  don't 
make  fun  of  me." 

"  Believe  me,  my  dear,"  he  said  tenderly,  raising  his 
head  ;  "  I  wouldn't  make  fun  of  you  for  two  million 
million  dollars.  It  is  the  truth —  the  bare,  miserable, 
wretched  truth.     I  am  not  worthy  of  you,  Mary  Ann." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  sir,"  she  faltered. 

"Thank  Heaven  for  that!"  he  said  with  the  old 
whimsical  look.  "  If  you  did  you  would  think  meanly 
of  me  ever  after.      Yes,  that  is  why,  Mary  Ann.     I 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  437 

am  a  selfish  brute  —  selfish  to  the  last  beat  of  my 
heart,  to  the  inmost  essence  of  my  every  thought. 
Beethoven  is  worth  two  of  me,  aren't  you,  Beetho- 
ven ?  "  The  spaniel,  thinking  himself  called,  trotted 
over.  "He  never  calculates  —  he  just  comes  and 
licks  my  hand  —  don't  look  at  me  as  if  I  were  mad, 
Mary  Ann.  You  don't  understand  me  —  thank 
Heaven  again.  Come  now !  Does  it  never  strike 
you  that  if  I  were  to  marry  you  now,  it  would  be 
only  for  your  two  and  a  half  million  dollars  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  faltered  Mary  Ann. 

"  I  thought  not,"  he  said  triumphantly.  "  No,  you 
will  always  remain  a  fool,  I  am  afraid,  Mary  Ann." 

She  met  his  contempt  with  an  audacious  glance. 

"  But  I  know  it  wouldn't  be  for  that,  Mr.  Lancelot." 

"  No,  no,  of  course  it  wouldn't  be,  not  now.  But 
it  ought  to  strike  you  just  the  same.  It  doesn't 
make  you  less  a  fool,  Mary  Ann.  There  !  There  ! 
I  don't  mean  to  be  unkind,  and,  as  I  think  I  told  you 
once  before,  it's  not  so  very  dreadful  to  be  a  fool. 
A  rogue  is  a  worse  thing,  Mary  Ann.  All  I  want  to 
do  is  to  open  your  eyes.  Two  and  a  half  million 
dollars  are  an  awful  lot  of  money  —  a  terrible  lot  of 
money.  Do  you  know  how  long  it  will  be  before  I 
make  two  million  dollars,  Mary  Ann  ?  " 

"  No,  sir."     She  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

"  Two  million  years.  Yes,  my  child,  I  can  tell  you 
now.  You  thought  I  was  rich  and  grand,  I  know, 
but  all  the  while   I  was  nearly  a  beggar.     Perhaps 


438  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

you  thought  I  was  playing  the  piano  —  yes,  and 
teaching  Rosie  —  for  my  amusement;  perhaps  you 
thought  I  sat  up  writing  half  the  night  out  of  —  sleep- 
lessness," he  smiled  at  the  phrase,  "or  a  wanton 
desire  to  burn  Mrs.  Leadbatter's  gas.  No,  Mary 
Ann,  I  have  to  get  my  own  living  by  hard  work  —  by 
good  work  if  I  can,  by  bad  work  if  I  must  —  but 
always  by  hard  work.  While  you  will  have  fifteen 
thousand  pounds  a  year,  I  shall  be  glad,  overjoyed,  to 
get  fifteen  hundred.  And  while  I  shall  be  grinding 
away  body  and  soul  for  my  fifteen  hundred,  your 
fifteen  thousand  will  drop  into  your  pockets,  even  if 
you  keep  your  hands  there  all  day.  Don't  look  so 
sad,  Mary  Ann.  I'm  not  blaming  you.  It's  not  your 
fault  in  the  least.  It's  only  one  of  the  many  jokes  of 
existence.  The  only  reason  I  want  to  drive  this  into 
your  head  is  to  put  you  on  your  guard.  Though  I 
don't  think  myself  good  enough  to  marry  you,  there 
are  lots  of  men  who  will  think  they  are  .  .  .  though 
they  don't  know  you.  It  is  you,  not  me,  who  are 
grand  and  rich,  Mary  Ann  .  .  .  beware  of  men 
like  me  —  poor  and  selfish.  And  when  you  do 
marry  — " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Lancelot !  "  cried  Mary  Ann,  bursting 
into  tears  at  last,  "  why  do  you  talk  like  that  ?  You 
know  I  shall  never  marry  anybody  else." 

"  Hush,  hush  !  Mary  Ann  !  I  thought  you  were 
going  to  be  a  good  girl  and  never  cry  again.  Dry 
your  eyes  now,  will  you?  " 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  439 

"  Yessir." 

"Here,  take  my  handkerchief." 

"Yessir  .  .  .  but  I  won't  marry  anybody  else." 

"  You  make  me  smile,  Mary  Ann.  When  you 
brought  your  mother  that  cake  for  Sally  you  didn't 
know  a  time  would  come  when  —  " 

"  Oh,  please,  sir,  I  know  that.  But  you  said 
yesterday  I  was  a  young  woman  now.  And  this  is 
all  different  to  that." 

"  No,  it  isn't,  Mary  Ann.  When  they've  put  you 
to  school,  and  made  you  a  Ward  in  Chancery,  or 
something,  and  taught  you  airs,  and  graces,  and 
dressed  you  up"  —  a  pang  traversed  his  heart,  as 
the  picture  of  her  in  the  future  flashed  for  a  mo- 
ment upon  his  inner  eye  — "  why,  by  that  time, 
you'll  be  a  different  Mary  Ann,  outside  and  inside. 
Don't  shake  your  head ;  I  know  better  than  you. 
We  grow  and  become  different.  Life  is  full  of 
chances,  and  human  beings  are  full  of  changes,  and 
nothing  remains  fixed." 

"  Then,  perhaps "  —  she  flushed  up,  her  eyes 
sparkled — "perhaps"  —  she  grew  dumb  and  sad 
again. 

"  Perhaps  what  ?  " 

He  waited  for  her  thought.  The  rapturous  trills 
of  the  canary  alone  possessed  the  silence. 

"Perhaps  you'll  change,  too."  She  flashed  a 
quick  deprecatory  glance  at  him  —  her  eyes  were 
full  of  soft  light. 


440  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

This  time  he  was  dumb. 

"Sw  —  eet!"  trilled  the  canary,  "  sw  —  eet !  " 
though  Lancelot  felt  the  throbbings  of  his  heart 
must  be  drowning  its  song. 

"  Acutely  answered,"  he  said  at  last.  "  You're 
not  such  a  fool  after  all,  Mary  Ann.  But  I'm 
afraid  it  will  never  be,  dear.  Perhaps  if  I  also 
made  two  million  dollars,  and  if  I  felt  I  had  grown 
worthy  of  you,  I  might  come  to  you  and  say  —  two 
and  two  are  four  —  let  us  go  into  partnership.  But 
then,  you  see,"  he  went  on  briskly,  "the  odds  are 
I  may  never  even  have  two  thousand.  Perhaps  I'm  as 
much  a  duffer  in  music  as  in  other  things.  Perhaps 
you'll  be  the  only  person  in  the  world  who  has  ever 
heard  my  music,  for  no  one  will  print  it,  Mary  Ann. 
Perhaps  I  shall  be  that  very  common  thing  —  a 
complete  failure  —  and  be  worse  off  than  even  you 
ever  were,  Mary  Ann." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Lancelot,  I'm  so  sorry."  And  her 
eyes  filled  again  with  tears. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  sorry  for  me.  I'm  a  man.  I  dare 
say  I  shall  pull  through.  Just  put  me  out  of  your 
mind,  dear.  Let  all  that  happened  at  Baker's  Ter- 
race be  only  a  bad  dream  —  a  very  bad  dream,  I 
am  afraid  I  must  call  it.  Forget  me,  Mary  Ann. 
Everything  will  help  you  to  forget  me,  thank 
Heaven,  it'll  be  the  best  thing  for  you.  Promise 
me  now." 

"  Yessir  .  .  .  if  you  will  promise  me." 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  441 

"  Promise  you  what  ?  " 

"To  do  me  a  favour." 

"Certainly,  dear,  if  I  can." 

"  You  have  the  money,  Mr.  Lancelot,  instead  of 
me  —  I  don't  want  it,  and  then  you  could —  " 

"Now,  now,  Mary  Ann,"  he  interrupted,  laughing 
nervously,  "  you're  getting  foolish  again,  after  talking 
so  sensibly." 

"  Oh,  but  why  not  ?  "  she  said  plaintively. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  he  said  curtly. 

"  Why  is  it  impossible?"  she  persisted. 

"  Because  — ,"  he  began,  and  then  he  realised  with 
a  start  that  they  had  come  back  again  to  that  same 
old  mechanical  series  of  questions  —  if  only  in  form. 

"  Because  there  is  only  one  thing  I  could  ever  bring 
myself  to  ask  you  for  in  this  world,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  Yes ;  what  is  that  ? "  she  said  flutteringly. 

He  laid  his  hand  tenderly  on  her  hair. 

"  Merely  Mary  Ann." 

She  leapt  up  :  "  Oh,  Mr.  Lancelot,  take  me,  take 
me  !     You  do  love  me  !     You  do  love  me  !  " 

He  bit  his  lip.  "  I  am  a  fool,"  he  said  roughly. 
"  Forget  me.  I  ought  not  to  have  said  anything. 
I  spoke  only  of  what  might  be  —  in  the  dim  future 
—  if  the  —  chances  and  changes  of  life  bring  us 
together  again  —  as  they  never  do.  No !  You 
were  right,  Mary  Ann.  It  is  best  we  should  not 
meet  again.     Remember  your  resolution  last  night." 

"  Yessir."     Her  submissive  formula  had  a  smack  of 


442  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

sullenness,  but  she  regained  her  calm,  swallowing  the 
lump  in  her  throat  that  made  her  breathing  difficult. 

"  Good-by,  then,  Mary  Ann,"  he  said,  taking  her 
hard  red  hands  in  his. 

"  Good-by,  Mr.  Lancelot."  The  tears  she  would 
not  shed  were  in  her  voice.  "  Please,  sir  —  could 
you  —  couldn't  you  do  me  a  favour  ?  —  Nothing 
about  money,  sir." 

"Well,  if  I  can,"  he  said  kindly. 

"  Couldn't  you  just  play  Good-night  and  Good-by, 
for  the  last  time?  You  needn't  sing  it  —  only  play 
it."   . 

"  Why,  what  an  odd  girl  you  are  !  "  he  said  with 
a  strange,  spasmodic  laugh.  "Why,  certainly!  I'll 
do  both,  if  it  will  give  you  any  pleasure." 

And,  releasing  her  hands,  he  sat  down  to  the 
piano,  and  played  the  introduction  softly.  He  felt  a 
nervous  thrill  going  down  his  spine  as  he  plunged 
into  the  mawkish  words.  And  when  he  came  to  the 
refrain,  he  had  an  uneasy  sense  that  Mary  Ann  was 
crying  —  he  dared  not  look  at  her.  He  sang  on 
bravely  :  — 

"Kiss  me,  good-night,  dear  love, 
Dream  of  the  old  delight : 
My  spirit  is  summoned  above, 
Kiss  me,  dear  love,  good-night." 

He  couldn't  go  through  another  verse  —  he  felt 
himself  all  a-quiver,  every  nerve  shattered.  He 
jumped    up.     Yes,   his    conjecture    had    been    right. 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  443 

Mary  Ann  was  crying.  He  laughed  spasmodically 
again.  The  thought  had  occurred  to  him  how  vain 
Peter  would  be  if  he  could  know  the  effect  of  his 
commonplace  ballad. 

"There,  I'll  kiss  you  too,  dear!"  he  said  huskily, 
still  smiling.     "That'll  be  for  the  last  time." 

Their  lips  met,  and  then  Mary  Ann  seemed  to  fade 
out  of  the  room  in  a  blur  of  mist. 

An  instant  after  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Forgot  her  parcels  after  a  last  good-by,"  thought 
Lancelot,  and  continued  to  smile  at  the  comicality  of 
the  new  episode. 

He  cleared  his  throat. 

"  Come  in,"  he  cried,  and  then  he  saw  that  the 
parcels  were  gone,  too,  and  it  must  be  Rosie. 

But  it  was  merely  Mary  Ann. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Lancelot,"  she  said  — 
her  accents  were  almost  cheerful  —  "that  I'm  going 
to  church  to-morrow  morning." 

"  To  church  !  "  he  echoed. 

"  Yes,  I  haven't  been  since  I  left  the  village,  but 
missus  says  I  ought  to  go  in  case  the  vicar  asks  me 
what  church  I've  been  going  to." 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  smiling  on. 

She  was  closing  the  door  when  it  opened  again, 
just  revealing  Mary  Ann's  face. 

"Well?"  he  said,  amused. 

"  But  I'll  do  your  boots  all  the  same,  Mr.  Lance- 
lot."    And  the  door  closed  with  a  bang. 


444  MERELY  MARY  ANN 

They  did  not  meet  again.  On  the  Monday  after- 
noon the  vicar  duly  came  and  took  Mary  Ann  away. 
All  Baker's  Terrace  was  on  the  watch,  for  her  story 
had  now  had  time  to  spread.  The  weather  remained 
bright.  It  was  cold  but  the  sky  was  blue.'  Mary 
Ann  had  borne  up  wonderfully,  but  she  burst  into 
tears  as  she  got  into  the  cab. 

"Sweet,  sensitive  little  thing!"  said  Baker's  Ter- 
race. 

"  What  a  good  woman  you  must  be,  Mrs.  Lead- 
batter,"  said  the  vicar,  wiping  his  spectacles. 

As  part  of  Baker's  Terrace,  Lancelot  witnessed 
the  departure  from  his  window,  for  he  had  not  left 
after  all. 

Beethoven  was  barking  his  short  snappy  bark  the 
whole  time  at  the  unwonted  noises  and  the  unfamiliar 
footsteps  ;  he  almost  extinguished  the  canary,  though 
that  was  clamorous  enough. 

"  Shut  up,  you  noisy  little  devils  !  "  growled  Lance- 
lot. And  taking  the  comic  opera  he  threw  it  on  the 
dull  fire.  The  thick  sheets  grew  slowly  blacker  and 
blacker,  as  if  with  rage ;  while  Lancelot  thrust  the 
five  five-pound  notes  into  an  envelope  addressed  to 
the  popular  composer,  and  scribbled  a  tiny  note  :  — 

"  Dear  Peter,  —  If  you  have  not  torn  up  that 
cheque    I    shall   be    glad    of    it    by   return.      Yours, 

"  Lancelot. 
"  P.S.  —  I    send    by  this    post     a     Reverie,  called 


MERELY  MARY  ANN  445 

Marianne,  which  is  the  best  thing  I  have  done, 
and  should  be  glad  if  you  could  induce  Brahmson  to 
look  at  it." 

A  big,  sudden  blaze,  like  a  jubilant  bonfire,  shot  up 
in  the  grate  and  startled  Beethoven  into  silence. 

But  the  canary  took  it  for  an  extra  flood  of  sun- 
shine, and  trilled  and  demi-semi-quavered  like  mad. 

"Sw  —  eet!     Sweet!" 

"By  Jove!"  said  L'ancelot,  starting  up,  "Mary 
Ann's  left  her  canary  behind !  " 

Then  the  old  whimsical  look  came  over  his  face. 

"  I  must  keep  it  for  her,"  he  murmured.  "  What 
a  responsibility !  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  let  Rosie 
look  after  it  any  more.  Let  me  see,  what  did  Peter 
say  ?  Canary  seed,  biscuits  .  .  .  yes,  I  must  be  care- 
ful not  to  give  it  butter.  .  .  .  Curious  I  didn't  think 
of  her  canary  when  I  sent  back  all  those  gloves  .  .  . 
but  I  doubt  if  I  could  have  squeezed  it  in  —  my 
boots  are  only  sevens  after  all  —  to  say  nothing  of  the 
cage." 


THE    SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 


Nelly  O'Neill  had  her  day  in  those  earlier  and 
quieter  reaches  of  the  Victorian  era  when  the  privi- 
lege of  microscopic  biography  was  reserved  for  the 
great  and  the  criminal  classes,  and  when  the 
Bohemian  celebrity  (who  is  perhaps  a  cross  between 
the  two)  was  permitted  to  pass  —  like  a  magic-lantern 
slide  —  from  obscurity  to  oblivion  through  an  illumi- 
nated moment. 

Thus  even  her  real  name  has  not  hitherto  leaked 
out,  and  to  this  day  the  O'Keeffes  are  unaware  of 
their  relative's  reputation  and  believe  their  one 
connection  with  the  stage  to  be  a  dubious  and 
undesirable  consanguinity  with  O'Keeffe,  the  actor 
and  fertile  farce-writer  whose  Wild  Oats  made  a 
sensation  at  Covent  Garden  at  the  end  of  the  eisrh- 
teenth  century.  To  her  many  brothers  and  sisters, 
Eileen  was  just  the  baby,  and  always  remained  so, 
even  in  the  eyes  of  the  eminent  civil  engineer  who 
was  only  her  senior  by  a  year.  Among  the  peasantry 
—  subtly  prescient  of  her  freakish  destinies  —  she 
was  dubbed  "  a  fairy  child  "  :  which  was  by  no  means 
a  compliment.     A  bad  uncanny  creature  for  all  the 

446 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  447 

colleen's  winsome  looks.  The  later  London  whis- 
pers of  a  royal  origin  had  a  travestied  germ  of  truth 
in  her  father's  legendary  descent  from  Brian  Boru. 
He  himself  seemed  scarcely  less  legendary,  this 
highly  coloured  squire  of  the  old  Irish  school,  sur- 
viving into  the  Victorian  era,  like  a  Georgian  carica- 
ture ;  still  inhabiting  a  turreted  castle  romantically 
out  of  repair,  infested  with  ragged  parasites :  still 
believing  in  high  living  and  deep  drinking :  still  re- 
ceiving the  reverence  if  not  the  rent  of  a  feudal 
tenantry,  and  the  affection  of  a  horsey  and  bibulous 
countryside.  When  in  liquor  there  was  nothing  the 
O'Keeffe  might  not  do  except  pay  off  his  mortgages. 
"  He  looked  like  an  elephant  when  he  put  his  trousers 
on  wrong  —  you  know  elephants  have  their  knees  the 
wrong  way,"  Eileen  once  told  the  public  in  a  patter- 
song.  She  did  not  tell  the  public  it  was  her  father^ 
but  like  a  true  artist  she  learned  in  suffering  what  she 
taught  in  song.  One  of  her  childish  memories  was 
to  be  stood  in  a  row  of  brothers  and  sisters  against 
a  background  of  antlers,  fishing-rods,  and  racing 
prints,  and  solemnly  sworn  at  for  innumerability  by  a 
ruddy-faced  giant  in  a  slovenly  surtout.  "  Bad  luck 
to  ye,  ye  gomerals,  make  up  your  minds  whether  ye're 
nine  or  eleven,"  he  would  say.  "  A  man  ought  to 
know  the  size  of  his  family :  Mother  in  heaven,  I 
never  thought  mine  was  half  so  large !  "  These 
attempts  to  take  a  census  of  his  children  generally 
occurred  after  a  peasant   had    brought   him   up  the 


448  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

drive — "hat  in  one  hand,  and  Squire  in  the 
other,"  as  the  patter-song  had  it.  At  the  moment 
of  assisted  entry  his  paternal  dignity  was  always  at 
its  stateliest,  and  it  was  not  till  he  had  gravely  hung 
his  cocked  hat  upon  an  imaginary  door-peg  in  the 
middle  of  the  hall  and  seen  it  flop  floorward  that  he 
lost  his  calm.  "  Blood  and  'ouns,  ye've  the  door 
taken  away  again." 

Sometimes  —  though  this  was  scarcely  a  relief  — 
another  befuddled  gentleman  would  be  left  at  the 
uninhabited  lodge  in  his  stead.  That  was  chiefly 
after  hunt  dinners  or  card  and  claret  parties,  when 
a  new  coachman  would  take  a  quartet  of  gentry 
home,  all  clouded  as  to  their  identities.  "Arrah 
now !  they've  got  thimselves  mixed  !  let  thim  sort 
thimselves."  And  the  coachman  would  grab  at  the 
nearest  limb,  extricate  it  and  its  belongings  from  the 
tangle,  and  prop  the  total  mass  against  the  first  gate 
he  passed.     And  so  with  the  rest. 

Eileen's  mother,  who  was  as  remarkable  for  her 
microscopic  piety  as  for  the  beauty  untarnished  by 
a  copious  maternity,  figured  in  the  child's  memories 
as  a  stout  saint  who  moved  with  a  rustle  of  silken 
skirts  and  heaved  an  opulent  black  silk  bosom  re- 
lieved by  a  silver  cross. 

"Who  are  you?"  her  spouse  would  inquire  with 
an  oath. 

"  It's  your  wife  I  am,  Bagenal  dear,"  she  would 
reply  cheerfully.     For  she  had  grown  up  in  the  four- 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  449 

bottle  tradition,  and  intoxication  appeared  as  natural 
for  the  superior  sex  as  sleep.  Both  were  tempo- 
rary phases,  and  did  not  prevent  men  from  being  the 
best  of  husbands  and  creatures  when  clear.  And 
when  the  marketwomen  or  the  beggarwomen  respect- 
fully inquired  of  her,  "  How  is  your  good  provider  ?  " 
she  made  her  reply  with  no  sense  of  irony,  though 
she  had  been  long  paying  the  piper  herself.  And 
the  piper  figured  literally  in  the  household  accounts, 
as  well  as  the  fiddler,  for  the  O'Keeffe  was  what  the 
mud  cabins  called  a  "ginthleman  to  the  backbone." 

II 

Family  tradition  necessitated  that  Eileen  should  at 
least  complete  her  education  at  a  convent  in  the  out- 
skirts of  Paris,  and  her  first  communion  was  delayed 
till  she  should  "  make  "  it  in  that  more  pious  at- 
mosphere. The  O'Keeffe  convoyed  her  across  the 
two  Channels,  and  took  the  opportunity  of  visiting 
a  "variety  "  theatre  in  Montmartre,  where  he  was  de- 
lighted to  find  John  Bull  and  his  inelegant  women- 
kind  so  faithfully  delineated.  So  exhilarated  was  he 
by  this  excellent  take-off  and  a  few  bocks  on  the 
Boulevard,  that  he  refused  to  get  down  from  the  om- 
nibus at  its  terminus. 

"Jamais  je  ne  descendrai,  jamais"  he  vociferated. 
Eileen  was,  however,  spared  the  sight  of  this  minia- 
ture French  revolution.  She  was  lying  sleepless  in 
the  strange  new  dormitory,  watching  the  nun  walk- 


450  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

ing  up  and  down  in  the  dim  weird  room  reading 
her  breviary,  now  lost  in  deep  shadow  with  the  re- 
moter beds,  now  lucidly  outlined  in  purple  dress 
with  creamy  cross  as  she  came  under  the  central 
night-light.  Eileen  wondered  how  she  could  see  to 
read,  and  if  she  were  not  just  posing  picturesquely, 
but  from  the  fervency  with  which  she  occasionally 
kissed  the  crucifix  hanging  to  the  rosary  at  her  side 
Eileen  concluded  she  must  know  the  office  by  heart. 
Her  own  Irish  home  seemed  on  another  planet,  and 
her  turret-bedroom  was  already  far  more  shadowy 
than  this :  presently  both  were  swallowed  up  into 
nothingness. 

She  commenced  her  convent  career  characteris- 
tically enough  by  making  a  sensation.  For  on  rising 
in  the  morning  she  felt  ineffably  feeble  and  forlorn  ; 
she  seemed  to  have  scarcely  closed  her  eyes,  when 
she  must  be  up  and  doing.  The  tiny  hand-basin 
scarcely  held  enough  water  to  cool  her  brow,  still 
giddy  from  the  sea-passage  ;  to  do  her  hair  she  had 
to  borrow  a  minute  hand-glass  from  her  neighbour, 
and  when  after  early  mass  in  the  chapel  she  found 
other  prayers  postponing  breakfast,  she  fainted  most 
alarmingly  and  dramatically.  She  was  restored  and 
refreshed  with  balm-mint  water,  but  it  took  some 
days  to  reconcile  her  to  the  rigid  life.  To  some  as- 
pects of  it,  indeed,  she  was  never  reconciled.  The  at- 
mosphere of  suspicious  supervision  was  asphyxiating, 
after  the  disorderliness  and  warm  humanity  of  her  Irish 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  451 

home,  after  the  run  of  the  stables  and  the  kennels, 
and  the  freedom  of  the  village,  after  the  chats  with 
the  pedlars  and  the  beggars,  and  the  borrowing  and 
blowing  of  the  postman's  bugle,  after  the  queenship 
of  a  host  of  barefooted  gossoons,  her  loyal  messenger- 
boys.  Now  her  mere  direct  glance  under  reproof 
was  considered  " Jiardi."  "Droop  your  eyes,  you 
bold  child,"  said  the  shocked  Madame  Agathe.  A 
fancy  she  took  to  a  French  girl  was  checked.  "  On 
defend  les  amities  particulieres"  she  was  told  to  her 
astonishment.  But  on  this  one  point  Eileen  was 
recalcitrant.  She  would  even  walk  with  her  arm 
in  Marcelle's,  and  somehow  her  will  prevailed.  Per- 
haps Eileen  was  trusted  as  a  foreigner  :  perhaps 
Marcelle,  being  a  day-boarder,  weighed  less  upon 
the  convent's  conscience.  There  came  a  time  when 
even  their  desks'  adjoined  and  were  not  put  asunder. 
For  by  this  time  Madame  La  Supcrieure  herself,  at 
the  monthly  reading  of  the  marks,  had  often  beamed 
upon  Eileen.  The  maitrcsse  de  classc  had  permitted 
her  to  kiss  her  crucifix,  and  the  music-mistress  was 
enchanted  with  her  skill  upon  the  piano  and  her 
rich  contralto  voice,  such  a  godsend  for  the  choir. 
In  her  very  first  term  she  was  allowed  to  run  up  to 
the  dormitory  for  something,  unescorted  by  an  En- 
fant de  Marie.  "  Ascend,  my  child,"  said  Madame 
Agathe,  smiling  sweetly,  for  Eileen  had  outstripped 
all  her  classmates  that  morning  in  geography,  and 
Eileen,  with  a  prim  "  Out,  ma  mere"  rose  and  sailed 


452  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

with  drooping  eyelashes  to  the  other  end  of  the 
schoolroom,  and  courtesied  herself  out  of  the  door, 
knowing  herself  the  focus  of  envy  and  humorously 
conscious  of  her  goodness.  She  had  learned  to  love 
this  soothing  sensation  of  goodness,  as  she  sat  in  her 
blue  pelerine  on  a  hard  tabouret  before  her  desk, 
her  hands  folded  in  front  of  her,  her  little  feet 
demurely  crossed.  The  sweeping  courtesy  of  en- 
trance and  exit  dramatised  this  pleasant  sense  of 
virtue.  Later  her  aspirant's  ribbon  painted  it  in 
purple. 

She  worked  hard  for  her  examinations.  "  Elle  est 
si  sage,  cet  enfant"  she  heard  Madame  Ursule  say  to 
Madame  Hortense,  and  she  had  a  delicious  sense  of 
overwork.  But  she  was  not  always  sage.  Once 
when  her  school  desk  was  ransacked  in  her  absence 
—  one  of  the  many  forms  of  espionage  —  she  refused 
to  rearrange  its  tumbled  contents,  and  when  she  was 
given  a  bad  mark  for  disorder,  she  cried  defiantly, 
"  It  is  Madame  Rosaline  who  deserves  that  bad 
mark."  And  the  pleasure  of  seeing  herself  as  rebel 
and  phrasemaker  was  no  less  keen  than  the  pleasure 
of  goodness. 

One  other  institution  found  her  regularly  rebel- 
lious, and  that  was  the  pious  reading  which  came 
punctually  at  half-past  eight  every  morning.  She 
was  bored  by  all  the  holy  heroines  who  seemed  to 
have  taken  vows  of  celibacy  at  the  age  of  four. 
"  Devil  take  them  all,"  she  thought  whimsically  one 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  453 

morning.  "  But  I  dare  say  these  good  little  people 
have  no  more  reality  than  our  '  little  good  people ' 
who  dance  reels  with  the  dead  on  November  Eve. 
I  wish  Dan  O'Leary  had  taught  them  all  to  shake 
their  feet,"  and  at  the  picture  of  jiggling  little  saints 
Eileen  nearly  gave  herself  away  by  a  peal  of  laugh- 
ter. For  she  had  learned  to  conceal  her  unshared 
contempt  for  the  holy  heroines,  and  found  a  compen- 
sating pleasure  in  the  sense  of  amused  superiority, 
and  the  secret  duality  which  it  gave  to  her  conscious- 
ness. She  even  went  so  far  as  to  ransack  the  library 
for  these  beatific  biographies,  and  when  she  found 
herself  rewarded  for  "  diligent  reading  "  her  amuse- 
ment was  at  its  apogee.  And  thus,  when  the  first 
awe  and  interest  of  the  strange  life  receded,  Eileen 
was  left  standing  apart  as  on  a  little  rock,  criticising, 
satirising,  and  even  circulating  verses  among  the 
few  cronies  who  were  not  sneaks.  The  dowerless 
"sisters"  who  scrubbed  the  floors,  the  portioned 
Mesdames,  with  their  more  dignified  humility,  the 
Refectory  readers,  the  Father  Confessors,  the  little 
Enfants  dc  Jesus,  the  big  Enfants  de  Marie,  who 
sometimes  owed  their  blue  ribbon  to  their  birth  or 
their  money  rather  than  to  their  exemplary  behav- 
iour, all  had  their  humours,  and  all  figured  in  Eileen's 
French  couplets.  The  difficulty  of  passing  these 
from  hand  to  hand  only  made  the  reading  —  and  the 
writing  —  the  spicier.  Literature  did  not  interfere 
with  lessons,  for  Eileen  composed  not  during  "  prepa- 


454  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

ration,"  but  while  she  sat  embroidering  handker- 
chiefs, as  demure  as  a  sleeping  kitten. 

When  the  kitten  was*  not  thus  occupied,  she  was 
playing  with  skeins  of  logic  and  getting  herself  ter- 
ribly tangled. 

She  put  her  difficulties  to  her  favourite  nun  as 
they  walked  in  the  quaint  arcades  of  the  lovely  old 
garden,  and  their  talk  was  punctuated  by  the  flippant 
click  of  croquet-balls  in  the  courtyard  beyond. 

"  Madame  Agathe  is  pleased  with  me  to-day,"  said 
Eileen.  "  To-morrow  she  will  be  displeased.  But 
how  can  I  help  the  colour  of  my  soul  any  more  than 
the  colour  of  my  hair  ?  " 

"  Hush,  my  child  ;  if  you  talk  like  that  you  will 
lose  your  faith.  Nobody  is  pleased  or  vexed  with 
anybody  for  the  colour  of  their  hair." 

"  Yes,  where  I  come  from  a  peasant  girl  suffers  a 
little  for  having  red  hair.  Also  a  man  with  a  hump, 
he  cannot  marry  unless  he  owns  many  pigs." 

"  Eileen  !  Who  has  put  such  dreadful  thoughts 
into  your  head  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  ask  myself,  ma  mere.  Many 
things  are  done  to  me  and  I  sit  in  the  centre  looking 
on,  like  the  weathercock  on  our  castle  at  home,  who 
sees  himself  turning  this  way  and  that  way  and  can 
only  creak." 

"A  weathercock  is  dead  —  you  are  alive." 

"  Not  at  night,  ma  mere.  At  home  in  my  bedroom 
I  used  to  put  out  my  candle  every  night  by  clapping 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  455 

the  extinguisher  upon  it.  Who  is  it  puts  the  extin- 
guisher upon  me  ? " 

The  good  sister  almost  wished  it  could  be  she. 
But  she  replied  gently,  "  It  is  God  who  gives  us  sleep 
—  we  can't  be  always  awake." 

"Then  I  am  not  responsible  for  my  dreams  anyhow?" 

"  I  hope  you  don't  have  bad  dreams,"  said  the  nun, 
affrighted. 

"  Oh,  I  dream  —  what  do  I  not  dream  ?     Sometimes 

I  fly  —  oh,  so  high,  and  all  the  people  look  up  at  me, 
they  marvel.  But  I  laugh  and  kiss  my  hand  to  them 
down  there." 

"  Well,  there's  no  harm  in  flying,"  said  the  nun. 

II  The  angels  fly." 

"  Oh,  but  I  am  not  always  an  angel  in  my  dreams. 
Is  it  God  who  sends  these  bad  dreams,  too  ?  " 

"No  — that  is  the  devil." 

"  Then  it  is  sometimes  he  who  puts  the  extinguisher 
on  ? " 

"That  is  when  you  have  not  said  your  prayers 
properly." 

Eileen  opened  wide  eyes  of  protest.  "  Oh,  but, 
dear  mother,  I  always  say  my  prayers  properly." 

"  You  think  so  ?  That  is  already  a  sin  in  you  — 
the  sin  of  spiritual  pride." 

"  But,  ma  mere,  devil-dreams  or  angel-dreams  — it  is 
always  the  same  in  the  morning.  Every  morning  one 
finds  oneself  ready  on  the  pillow,  like  a  clock  that 
has  been  wound  up.     One  did  not  make  the  works." 


456  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

"  But  one  can  keep  them  clean." 

Eileen  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"  Qu'avez-vous  done?"  said  the  good  creature  in 
vexation. 

"  I  thought  of  a  clock  washing  its  face  with  its 
hands." 

"You  are  a  naughty  child  —  one  cannot  talk  seri- 
ously to  you." 

"  Oh,  dear  mother,  I  am  just  as  serious  when  I  am 
laughing  as  when  I  am  crying." 

"  My  child,  we  must  never  cultivate  the  mocking 
spirit.     Leave  me.     I  am  vexed  with  you." 

As  her  first  communion  approached,  however,  all 
these  simmerings  of  scepticism  and  revolt  died  down 
into  the  recommended  recueillcmcnt.  Her  days  of 
retreat,  passed  in  holy  exercises,  were  an  ecstasy  of 
absorption  into  the  divine,  and  the  pious  readings 
began  to  assume  a  truer  complexion  as  the  experi- 
ences of  sister-souls,  deep  crying  unto  deep.  Oh,  how 
she  yearned  to  take  the  vows,  to  leave  the  trivial  dis- 
tracting life  of  the  outer  world  for  the  peace  of  self- 
sacrificial  love  ! 

As  she  sat  in  the  chapel,  all  white  muslin  and  white 
veil,  her  hair  braided  under  a  little  cap,  the  new 
rosary  of  amethyst  —  a  gift  from  home  —  at  her  side, 
her  hands  clasped,  exalted  by  incense  and  flowers 
and  the  sweet  voices  of  the  choir,  chanting  Gounod's 
Canticle,  "  Lc  del  a  visitc  la  terre"  she  felt  that 
never   more  would  she  let  this  celestial  visitant  go. 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  457 

When  after  the  communion  she  pulled  the  last  piece 
of  veiling  over  her  face,  she  felt  that  it  was  for  ever 
between  her  and  the  crude  world  of  sense ;  the 
"  Hymn  of  Thanksgiving  "  was  the  apt  expression  of 
her  emotions. 

But  next  time  she  came  under  these  aesthetic,  devo- 
tional influences  —  even  as  her  own  voice  was  soaring 
heavenward  in  the  choir  —  she  thought  to  herself, 
"  How  delicious  to  have  an  emotion  which  you  feel 
will  last  for  ever  and  which  you  know  won't !  "  And 
a  gleam  of  amusement  flitted  over  her  rapt  features. 

Ill 

When  Eileen  returned  to  the  Convent  after  her 
first  summer  vacation  in  Ireland  she  was  richer  by  a 
surreptitious  correspondent.  He  wrote  to  her,  care 
of  Marcelle,  who  had  a  careless  mother.  He  was  a 
young  officer  from  the  neighbouring  barracks  who, 
invited  to  make  merry  with  the  hospitable  O'Keeffe, 
had  fallen  a  victim  to  Eileen's  girlish  charms  and 
mature  appearance,  for  Eileen  carried  herself  as  if 
her  years  were  three  more  and  her  inches  six  higher. 
Her  face  had  the  winsome  Irish  sweetness ;  it,  too, 
looked  lovelier  than  a  scientific  survey  would  have 
determined.  Her  nose  was  straightish,  her  mouth 
small,  her  lashes  were  long  and  dark  and  conspired 
with  her  dark  hair  to  trick  a  casual  observer  into 
thinking  her  eyes  dark,  but  they  were  grey  with  little 
flecks  of  golden  light  if  you  looked  closelier  than  you 


458  THE  SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

should.  Her  hands  were  large  but  finely  shaped, 
with  long  fingers  somewhat  turned  back  at  the  tips, 
and  pretty  pink  nails — the  hands  were  especially 
noticeable,  because  even  when  Eileen  was  not  play- 
ing the  pianoforte,  she  was  prone  to  extend  her 
thumb  as  though  stretching  an  octave  and  to  flick  it 
as  though  striking  a  note. 

It  was  not  love-letters,  though,  that  Lieutenant 
Doherty  sent  Eileen,  for  the  schoolgirl  had  always 
taken  him  in  a  motherly  way,  and  indeed  signed  her- 
self "Your  Mother-Confessor."  But  the  mystery 
and  difficulty  of  smuggling  the  letters  to  and  fro  lent 
colour  to  the  drab  Convent  days,  far  vivider  colour 
than  the  whilom  passing  of  verses.  So  long  as  Mar- 
celle's  desk  remained  next  to  Eileen's  it  was  compar- 
atively easy  —  though  still  risky  —  while  one's  head 
was  studiously  buried  in  "  Greek  roots,"  for  one's 
automatic  hand  to  pass  or  receive  the  letter  beneath 
the  desks  through  the  dangerous  space  of  daylight 
between  the  two.  "  Let  not  your  right  hand  know 
what  your  left  hand  doeth,"  Eileen  once  quoted  when 
Marcelle's  conscience  pricked.  For  Marcelle  imag- 
ined an  amour  of  the  darkest  dye,  and  could  not 
understand  Eileen's  calmness  any  more  than  Eileen 
could  understand  Marcelle's  romantic  palpitations 
alternating  with    suggestive    sniggerings. 

But  when  Marcelle  was  at  length  separated  from 
Eileen  by  a  suspicious  management,  a  much  more 
breathless  plan  was  necessary.     For  Marcelle  would 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  459 

deposit  the  Doherty  letter  in  Eileen's  compartment 
in  the  curtained  row  of  little  niches  —  where  one  kept 
one's  work-bag,  atlas,  and  other  educational  reserves 
—  or  Eileen  would  slip  the  reply  into  Marcelle's,  and 
there  it  would  lie,  exposed  to  inspectorial  ransacking, 
till  such  times  as  Eileen  or  Marcelle  could  transfer  it 
to  her  bosom.  Poor  Marcelle  lived  with  her  heart  in 
her  mouth,  trembling,  at  every  rustle  of  the  curtain, 
for  her  purple  ribbon.  However,  luck  favoured  the 
bold,  while  the  only  bad  moment  in  which  Eileen  was 
on  the  verge  of  detection  she  surmounted  by  a  stroke 
of  genius. 

"What  are  you  hiding  there?"  said  the  music- 
mistress,  more  sharply  than  she  was  wont  to  address 
her  pet  pupil.  Eileen  put  her  hand  to  her  bosom. 
'Twas  as  if  she  were  protecting  the  young  lieutenant 
from  pursuing  foes,  and  he  became  romantically  dear 
to  her  in  that  perilous  moment,  pregnant  with  swift 
invention. 

She  looked  round  with  dramatic  mysteriousness. 
"Hush,  ma  mere"  she  breathed;  "the  Mother 
Superior  might  hear." 

"  Ah,  it  concerns  the  Reverend  Mother's  fete," 
cried  the  music-mistress,  falling  into  the  trap  and 
even  saving  Eileen  from  the  lie  direct.  "  Good,  my 
child,"  and  she  smiled  tenderly  upon  her.  For  the 
birthday  of  the  Lady  Superior  which  was  imminent 
was  heralded  by  infinite  mysteriousness.  The  Rev- 
erend Mother  was  taken  by  surprise,  regularly  and 


460  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

punctually.  The  girls  all  subscribed,  their  parents 
were  invited  to  send  plants  and  flowers.  The  air 
vibrated  with  sublime  secrecy,  amid  which  the  Rev- 
erend Mother  walked  guilelessly.  And  when  the 
great  day  came  and  the  fete  was  duly  sprung  upon 
her,  and  the  pupils  all  dressed  in  white  overwhelmed 
her  with  bouquets  and  courtesies,  how  exquisite 
was  her  pleased  astonishment !  That  night  talking 
was  allowed  in  the  Refectory,  and  how  the  girls  jab- 
bered !  It  was  like  the  rolling  of  ceaseless  thunder 
—  one  would  have  thought  they  had  never  talked 
before  and  never  would  talk  again,  and  that  they 
were  anxious  to  unload  themselves  once  for  all. 

"  How  the  ordinary  becomes  the  extraordinary  by 
being  forbidden,"  philosophised  Eileen.  "At  the 
Castle  I  can  do  a  hundred  things,  which  here  become 
enormous  privileges,  even  if  I  am  allowed  to  do  them 
at  all.  Is  it  so  with  everything  they  say  is  wrong  ? 
Is  all  sin  artificial,  and  do  people  sin  so  zestfully  only 
because  they  are  cramped  ?  Or  is  there  a  residue  of 
real  wickedness?"  Thus  she  thought,  struggling 
against  the  obsession  of  an  inquisitorial  system  which 
merely  clouded  her  perceptions  of  real  right  and 
wrong.  And  alone  she  ate  silently,  a  saintly  figure 
amid  the  laughing,  chattering  crew. 

She  wrote  her  maternal  admonitions  to  young 
Doherty  during  the  preparation-time,  and  far  keener 
than  her  sense  of  the  lively,  good-looking  young 
officer    was    her    sense    of    the    double   life    she    led 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  461 

through  him  in  this  otherwise  monotonous  Convent. 
When  she  achieved  the  blue  ribbon  of  the  Enfants  de 
Marie,  for  which  she  had  worked  with  true  devotion, 
it  added  poignancy  to  her  pious  pleasure  to  think  that 
one  false  step  in  her  secret  life  would  have  marred 
her  overt  life. 

IV 

As  the  end  of  her  conventual  period  drew  nigh 
Eileen  resolved  never  to  go  back  to  the  spotted 
world,  but  to  ask  her  father  to  pay  her  dowry  as 
Bride  to  the  Church,  and  she  had  just  placed  in  Mar- 
celle's  niche  the  letter  informing  Lieutenant  Doherty 
of  her  call  to  the  higher  life  (and  pointing  out  how 
apter  than  ever  his  confessions  would  now  be)  when 
Marcelle's  signal  warned  her  to  look  in  her  own  niche. 
There  she  found  a  letter  which  she  could  not  read 
till  bread-and-chocolate  time,  but  which  then  took  the 
flavour  out  of  these  refreshments.  Her  lover  —  he 
leaped  to  that  verbal  position  in  her  thought  in  this 
moment  of  crisis  —  was  ordered  off  in  haste  to 
Afghanistan.  The  geographical  proficiency  which 
had  won  her  so  many  marks  served  her  only  too 
well,  but  she  hastened  to  extract  her  atlas  from  the 
fatal  niche,  and  to  pore  over  her  geographical  miser)'. 
She  felt  she  ought  to  withdraw  her  own  letter  for 
revision,  but  she  could  not  get  at  Marcelle  or  even 
make  her  understand.  In  her  perturbation  she  gave 
Cabul  and  Candahar  as  Kings  of  Navarre,  and  Mar- 


462  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

celle,  implacable  as  a  pillar-box,  went   away  in   the 
evening  like  a  mail-cart. 

But  the  very  same  night  the  Superior  handed 
Eileen  an  opened  cablegram  which  banished  Lieu- 
tenant Doherty  much  farther  than  Afghanistan. 
Her  father  was  very  ill,  and  called  her  to  his  bed- 
side. Things  had  a  way  of  happening  simultane- 
ously to  Eileen,  these  coincidences  dogged  her  life, 
so  that  she  came  to  think  of  them  as  the  rival  threads 
of  her  life  getting  tangled  at  certain  points  and  then 
going  off  separately  again.  After  all,  if  you  have 
several  strings  to  your  life,  she  told  herself,  it  would 
be  more  improbable  that  they  should  always  remain 
separate  than  that  they  should  sometimes  intertwine. 

Eileen  reached  the  Castle  through  a  tossing  avenue 
of  villagers,  weeping  and  blessing,  and  divined  from 
their  torment  of  sympathy  that  "his  honour"  was 
already  in  his  grave.  Poor  feckless  father,  how  she 
had  loved  him  spite  all  his  rollicking  ways,  or  perhaps 
because  of  them.  Through  her  tears  she  saw  him 
counting  —  on  his  entry  into  Paradise  —  the  children 
who  had  preceded  him,  and  more  than  ever  fuzzled 
by  the  flapping  of  their  wings.  Oh,  poor  dearest, 
how  unhomely  it  would  all  be  to  him,  this  other 
world  where  his  jovial  laugh  would  shock  the  nun- 
like spirits,  where  there  was  no  more  claret,  cold, 
mulled,  or  buttered,  and  no  sound  of  horn  or  tally-ho. 

Perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  so  many  of  his  brood 
had    gone   before   him,  for  with    his    departure   the 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  463 

Castle  fell  metaphorically  about  the  ears  of  the 
survivors.  Creditors  gave  quarter  no  longer,  and 
Mrs.  O'Keeffe  found  herself  reduced  to  a  modest 
red-gabled  farmhouse,  with  nothing  saved  from  the 
crash  save  that  part  of  her  dowry  which  was  in- 
vested in  trustees  for  the  education  of  her  boys. 
There  was  no  question  of  Eileen  returning  to  the 
Convent  as  a  pupil :  her  desire  to  take  the  veil  failed 
at  the  thought  that  now  she  could  only  be  a  dower- 
less  working-sister,  not  a  teacher.  And  for  teaching, 
especially  music-teaching,  she  felt  she  had  a  real  gift. 
By  a  natural  transition  arose  the  idea  of  becoming  a 
music-teacher  or  a  governess  outside  a  Convent,  and 
since  her  stay  at  home  only  helped  to  diminish  her 
mother's  resources,  she  resolved  to  augment  them  by 
leaving  her.  Family  pride  forbade  the  neighbour- 
hood witnessing  a  deeper  decline.  The  O'Keeffes 
were  still  "  the  Quality  "  ;  it  would  be  better  to  seek 
her  fortunes  outside  Ireland  and  retain  her  prestige 
at  home.  The  dual  existence  would  give  relish  and 
variety. 

Eileen's  mind  worked  so  quickly  that  she  com- 
municated these  ideas  to  her  mother,  ere  that  patient 
lady  had  quite  realised  that  never  more  would  she 
say,  "  It's  your  wife  I  am,  Bagenal  dear." 

"  No,  no,  you  are  not  to  be  going  away,"  cried 
Mrs.  O'Keeffe,  in  alarm. 

"  Why  wouldn't  I  ?  "  asked  Eileen. 

Mrs.  O'Keeffe  could  not  tell,  but  looked  mysterious 


464  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

meanings.  This  excited  Eileen,  so  that  the  poor 
woman  had  no  rest  till  she  answered  plainly,  "  Be- 
cause, mavourneen,  it's  married  you  are  going  to  be, 
please  the  saints." 

"Married!     Me!" 

"  It  was  your  father's  dying  wish,  God  keep  his 
soul." 

"  But  to  whom  ?  "  . 

"  You  should  be  asking  the  priest  how  good  he 
is.  Didn't  you  notice  that  the  chapel  is  being  white- 
washed afresh  and  how  clear  the  Angelus  bell  rings  ? 
Not  that  it  matters  much  to  him,  for  he  has  lashings 
of  money  as  well  as  a  heart  of  gold." 

"  Hasn't  he  a  name,  too  ?  " 

"  Don't  jump  down  my  throat,  Eileen  darling. 
I  shouldn't  be  thinking  of  O'Flanagan  if  your 
father  —  " 

"  O'Flanagan  !  Do  you  mean  the  man  that  bought 
our  Castle  at  the  auction  ?  " 

"  And  isn't  it  beautifully  repaired  he's  having  it 
for  you  ?  He  saw  you  when  you  were  home  for 
the  holidays,  and  he  asked  us  for  your  hand,  all  so 
humble,  but  your  father  told  him  he  must  wait  till 
you  came  home  for  good." 

"O'Flanagan!"  Eileen  flicked  him  away  with 
her  thumb.     "  A  half-mounted  gentleman  like  that." 

"  Eileen  aroon,  beggars  can't  be  choosers." 

Eileen  flushed  all  over  her  body.  "  No  more  can 
beggars  on  horseback." 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  465 

"  Your  father  will  be  sorry  you  take  it  like  that, 
mavourneen."     And  the  stout  saint  burst  into  tears. 

Eileen  winced.  She  could  almost  have  flung  her 
arms  round  her  mother  and  promised  to  think  of 
it.  Suddenly  she  remembered  Lieutenant  Doherty. 
How  dared  they  tear  her  away  from  the  man  she 
loved !  They  had  not  even  consulted  her.  She 
flicked  her  thumb  agitatedly  on  the  back  of  her 
mother's  chair.  Let  her  weep  !  Did  they  want  to 
sell  her,  to  exchange  her  for  a  castle,  as  if  she  were 
a  chess-piece  ?     The  thought  made  her  smile  again. 

Her  mother  said  no  more,  but  she  could  not  have 
employed  a  more  convincing  eloquence.  The  reti- 
cence wrought  upon  Eileen's  nerves.  After  a 
couple  of  months  of  maternal  meekness  and  family 
poverty,  the  suggested  sacrifice  began  to  appeal  to 
her.  A  letter  from  Doherty  on  his  steamer  (for- 
warded to  her  from  Paris  by  Marcelle),  passion- 
ately protesting  against  her  intention  to  take  the 
vows,  came  to  remind  her  that  sacrifice  was  what 
she  yearned  for.  The  coming  of  the  letter  was 
providential,  she  told  herself  :  if  Marcelle  had  not 
posted  hers  against  her  will,  she  might  not  have 
had  this  monition.  To  return  to  the  Castle  as  a 
bride,  martyred  for  the  family  redemption,  was  really 
only  a  way  of  returning  to  the  Convent.  It  meant  a 
life  of  penance  for  the  good  of  others.  To  think 
of  her  mother  sunning  herself  again  upon  the  battle- 
mented  terrace,  or  sleeping  —  if  only  as  guest  —  in 


466  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

the  great  panelled  bedroom,  brought  a  lump  to  her 
throat ;  her  poor  tenantry,  too,  should  bless  her 
name  ;  she  would  glide  among  them  like  a  spirit, 
very  sad,  yet  with  such  healing  in  her  smile  and  in 
her  touch.  "  Sure  the  misthress  is  the  swatest  angel 
God  iver  sint,  so  she  is."  At  home  she  would  sit  and 
spin  in  the  old  tapestried  room,  her  own  life  as 
faded,  and  sometimes  she  would  dream  in  the  hall, 
among  the  antlers  and  beast-skins,  and  watch  the 
great  burning  logs,  so  much  more  poetic  than  this 
peat  smoke  which  hurt  one's  eyes.  Ah,  but  then 
there  was  O'Flanagan.  Well,  he  would  not  be  much 
in  the  way.  He  liked  riding  over  his  new  estate  in 
his  buckskin  breeches,  cracking  his  great  loaded 
whip.  She  had  met  him  herself  once  or  twice,  and 
the  great  shy  creature  had  blushed  furiously  and 
ridden  off  down  the  first  bridle-path.  "  I  turn  his 
horse's  head  as  well  as  his,"  she  had  thought  with  a 
smile.  Yes,  she  must  sacrifice  herself.  How  strange 
that  the  nuns  should  imagine  you  only  renounced  by 
giving  up  earthly  life.  Why,  earthly  life  might  be 
the  most  celestial  renunciation  of  all.  But  Lieu- 
tenant Doherty,  what  of  him  ?  Had  she  the  right 
to  sacrifice  him,  too  ?  But  then  she  had  never  given 
him  any  claim  upon  her  —  she  had  been  merely  his 
little  mother-confessor.  If  he  had  dared  to  love  her 
—  as  his  passionate  protest  against  the  veil  seemed 
to  suggest  —  it  was  at  his  own  risk.  Poor  Doherty, 
how  grieved  he  would  be  in  far  Afghanistan.     He 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  467 

would  probably  rush  upon  the  assegais  and  die,  mur- 
muring her  name.  Her  eyes  filled  with  delicious 
tears.  She  sat  down  and  scribbled  him  a  letter 
hastily,  announcing  'her  impending  marriage,  and 
posted  it  at  once,  so  as  to  put  herself  beyond  temp- 
tation to  draw  back.  Then  she  dashed  to  her 
mother's  room  and  sobbed  out,  "  Dear  heart,  I 
consent  to  be  martyred." 

"  What  ?  "  said  Mrs.  O'Keeffe,  opening  her  eyes. 

"  I  consent  to  be  married,"  Eileen  corrected  hastily. 

"Do  you  mean  to  Mr.  O'Flanagan?"  Mrs. 
O'Keeffe's  face  became  red  as  the  sun  in  mist.  The 
cross  heaved  convulsively  on  her  black  silk  bosom. 

"  To  whom  else  ?  You  haven't  forgotten  he  wanted 
to  marry  me." 

"  No,  but  he  has,  I  am  fearing." 

"What?"  It  was  now  Eileen's  turn  to  open  her 
eyes,  and  the  tears  dried  on  her  lashes  as  she  lis- 
tened. Mrs.  O'Keeffe  explained,  amid  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  burning  blood,  that  she  had  waited  in  vain 
for  Mr.  O'Flanagan  to  renew  his  proposal.  At  first 
she  thought  he  was  waiting  for  a  decent  interval  to 
elapse,  or  for  the  Castle  to  be  ready  for  his  bride,  but 
gradually  she  had  become  convinced  by  his  silence 
and  by  the  way  he  avoided  her  eye  when  they  met 
and  turned  his  horse  down  the  nearest  boreen,  that 
Eileen  had  been  right  in  calling  him  half-mounted. 
He  had  proposed  when  he  imagined  the  Squire's 
fortunes   were    as    of   yore,   but   now   he    feared    he 


4G8  THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS 

would  have  to  support  the  ruined  family.  Well,  he 
needn't  fear.  The  family  wouldn't  touch  him  with 
a  forty-foot  pole. 

"  If  only  your  poor  father  had  been  alive,"  wound 
up  Mrs.  O'Keeffe,  "the  dirty  upstart  would  never 
have  dared  to  put  such  an  insult  on  his  orphaned 
daughter,  that  he  wouldn't,  and  if  Dan  O'Leary 
should  hear  of  it  —  which  the  saints  forbid  —  it's  not 
the  jig  that  his  foot  would  be  teaching  Mr.  O'Flana- 
gan." 

The  bathos  of  this  anti-climax  to  martyrdom  was 
too  grotesque.  Eileen  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter, 
which  was  taken  by  her  mother  as  a  tribute  to  her 
lively  vituperation.  Decidedly,  life  was  deliciously 
odd.  Suddenly  she  remembered  her  posted  letter  to 
Doherty,  and  she  laughed  louder. 

Should  she  send  another  on  its  heels  ?  No,  it 
would  be  rather  difficult  to  explain.  Besides,  it  would 
be  so  interesting  to  see  how  he  replied. 

V 

Holly  Hall  —  Eileen's  first  place  —  was  in  the  Eng- 
lish midlands,  towards  the  North :  a  sombre  stone 
house  looking  down  on  a  small  manufacturing  town, 
whose  very  grass  seemed  dingied  with  coal-dust. 
"  A  dromedary  town,"  Eileen  dubbed  it;  for  it  con- 
sisted of  a  long  level  with  two  humps,  standing  in  a 
bleak  desert.  On  one  of  the  humps  she  found  her- 
self   perched.       Below  —  between   the   humps  —  lay 


THE  SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  469 

the  town  proper,  with  its  savour  of  grime  and  gain. 
The  Black  Hole  was  Eileen's  name  for  this  quarter; 
and  indeed  you  might  leave  your  hump,  bathed  in 
sunlight,  dusty  but  still  sunlight,  and  as  you  came 
down  the  old  wagon-road  you  would  plunge  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  yellowish  fog  which  the  poor 
townspeople  mistook  for  daylight.  The  streets  of 
the  Black  Hole  bristled  with  public-houses,  banks, 
factories,  and  dissenting  chapels.  The  population 
was  given  over  to  dogs  and  football,  and  medical 
men  abounded.  Arches,  blank  walls,  and  hoardings 
were  flamboyant  with  ugly  stage-beauties,  melodra- 
matic tableaux,  and  the  advertisements  of  tailors. 
After  the  Irish  glens  and  the  Convent  garden  the 
Black  Hole  was  not  exhilarating. 

Mr.  Maper,  the  proprietor  of  Holly  Hall,  was  a  mill- 
owner,  a  big-boned,  kindly  man,  who  derived  his 
Catholicism  from  an  Irish  mother,  and  had  therefore 
been  pleased  to  find  an  Irish  girl  among  the  candi- 
dates for  the  post  of  companion  to  his  wife. 

As  he  drove  her  from  the  station  up  the  steep  old 
wagon-road  he  explained  the  situation,  in  more  than 
one  sense.  Eileen's  girlish  intuition  helped  his  lame 
sentences  over  the  stiles.  Briefly,  she  was  to  polish 
the  quondam  mill-hand,  whom  he  had  married  when 
he,  too,  was  a  factory  operative,  but  who  had  not 
been  able  to  rise  with  him.  He  was  an  alderman  and 
a  J. P.  That  made  things  difficult  enough.  But  how 
if  he  became  Mayor?     An  alderman  has  no  necessary 


470  THE*SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

feminine,  not  even  alderwoman,  but  Mayor  makes 
Mayoress.  And  a  Mayoress  is  not  safe  from  the 
visits  of  royalty  itself.  Of  course  the  Mayoress  was 
not  to  suspect  she  was  being  refined ;  "  made  a  Lady 
Mayoress,"  as  Eileen  put  it  to  herself. 

She  entered  with  a  light  heart  upon  a  task  she 
soon  found  heavy.  For  the  mistress  of  Holly  Hall 
had  no  sense  of  imperfections.  She  was  a  tall  and 
still  good-looking  person,  and  this  added  to  her  fatal 
complacency.  Eileen  saw  that  she  imagined  God 
made  the  woman  and  money  the  lady,  and  that  be- 
tween a  female  in  a  Paris  bonnet  and  a  female  in  a 
head-shawl  there  was  a  natural  gap  as  between  a 
crested  cockatoo  and  a  hedge-sparrow.  Mrs.  Maper 
indeed  suffered  badly  from  swelled  self,  for  it  had 
subconsciously  expanded  with  its  surroundings.  The 
wide  rooms  of  the  Hall  were  her  spacious  skirts, 
bedecked  with  the  long  glitter  of  the  glass-houses ; 
her  head  reached  the  roof  and  wore  the  weathercock 
as  a  feather  in  her  bonnet.  All  those  whirring  engines 
in  the  misty  valley  below  were  her  demon-slaves,  and 
the  chimneys  puffed  up  incense  at  her.  When  she 
drove  out,  her  life-blood  coursed  pleasurably  through 
the  ramping,  glossy  horses. 

Mrs.  Maper,  in  short,  saw  herself  an  empress.  It 
was  simply  impossible  for  her  to  realise  that  there 
were  eyes  which  could  still  see  the  head-shawl,  not 
the  crown.  Her  one  touch  of  dignity  was  grotesque 
—  it  consisted  of  extending  her  arm  like  a  stiff  sceptre, 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  471 

in  moments  of  emphasis,  and  literally  pointing  her 
remarks  with  her  forefinger.  Sometimes  she  pointed 
to  the  ceiling,  sometimes  to  the  carpet,  sometimes  to 
the  walls.  This  digital  punctuation  appeared  to  be 
not  only  superfluous  but  irrelevant,  for  Heaven  might 
be  invoked  from  the  floor. 

With  this  bejewelled  lady  Eileen  passed  her  days 
either  on  the  Hump,  or  in  the  Black  Hole,  or  in  the 
environs,  and  but  for  her  sense  of  humour  and  her 
power  of  leading  a  second  life  above  or  below  her 
first,  her  tenure  of  the  post  would  have  been  short. 
The  most  delicate  repetitions  of  mispronounced  words, 
the  subtlest  substitution  of  society  phrases  for  factory 
idioms,  fell  blunted  against  an  impenetrable  ignorance 
and  self-sufhciency.  Short  of  dropping  the  pose  of 
companion  and  boldly  rapping  a  pupil  on  the  knuckles, 
there  seemed  to  her  no  way  of  modifying  her  mis- 
tress. "  Who  can  refine  what  Fortune  has  gilded  ?  " 
she  asked  herself  in  humorous  despair.  The  appear- 
ance of  Mr.  Maper  at  dinner  brought  little  relief.  It 
was  a  strange  meal  in  the  lordly  dining-room  —  three 
covers  laid  at  one  end  of  the  long  mahogany  table, 
under  the  painted  stare  of  somebody  else's  ancestors. 
Eileen's  girlish  enjoyment  of  the  prodigal  fare  was 
spoiled  by  her  furtive  watch  on  the  hostess's  fork. 
Nor  did  the  alderman  contribute  ease,  for  he  was  on 
pins  lest  the  governess  should  reveal  her  true  mission, 
and  on  needles  lest  his  wife  should  reveal  her  true 
depths.     Likewise    he  worried    Eileen    to  drink    his 


472  THE   SERIO-COMIC  GOVERNESS 

choicest  wines.  Vintages  that  she  felt  her  father 
would  have  poised  on  his  tongue  in  mystic  clucking 
ecstasy  stood  untasted  in  a  regiment  of  little  glasses 
at  her  elbow. 

She  repaid  them,  however,  by  adroit  educational 
remarks. 

"  How  stupid  of  me  again !  "  she  said  once.  "  I 
held  out  my  hock  glass  for  the  champagne  !  Do  tell 
me  again  which  is  which,  dear  Mrs.  Maper." 

"  I  suppose  you  never  had  a  drink  of  champagne  in 
your  life  afore  you  come  here,"  said  Mrs.  Maper, 
beamingly.     And  she  indicated  the  port  glass. 

"  No,  no,  Lucy,  don't  play  pranks  on  a  stranger," 
her  husband  put  in  tactfully.  "  It's  this  glass,  Miss 
O'Keeffe." 

"Oh,  thank  you!"  Eileen  gushed.  "And  this  is 
what  ?     Sherry  ?  " 

"  No,  port,"  replied  Mr.  Maper,  scarcely  able  to 
repress  a  wink. 

"You'll  have  to  tell  me  again  to-morrow  night," 
said  Eileen,  enjoying  her  own  comedy  powers.  "  My 
poor  father  tried  to  teach  me  the  difference  between 
bird's-eye  and  shag,  but  I  could  never  remember." 

"  Ah,  Bob's  the  boy  for  teaching  you  that," 
guffawed  the  mill-owner.  "  I  stick  to  half-crown 
cigars  myself."  His  wife  shot  him  a  dignified 
rebuke,  as  though  he  were  forgetting  his  station  in 
undue  familiarity. 

Afterwards  Eileen  wondered  who  Bob  was,  but  at 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  473 

the  moment  she  could  think  of  nothing  but  the 
farcical  complications  arising  from  the  idea  of  Mrs. 
Maper's  providing  Mr.  Maper  with  a  male  compan- 
ion secretly  to  improve  his  manners.  Of  course  the 
two  companions  would  fall  in  love  with  each  other. 

After  dinner  things  usually  woke  up  a  little,  for 
Eileen  was  made  to  play  and  even  sing  from  the 
scores  of  "  Madame  Angot "  and  other  recent  comic 
operas  —  a  form  of  music  that  had  not  hitherto  come 
her  way,  though  it  was  the  only  form  the  music-racks 
held  to  feed  the  grand  piano  with.  Not  till  the  worthy 
couple  had  retired,  could  she  permit  herself  her  old 
Irish  airs,  or  the  sonatas  and  sacred  pieces  of  the 
Convent. 

VI 

Accident  —  the  key  to  all  great  inventions  —  sup- 
plied Eileen  with  a  new  way  of  educating  her 
mistress.  The  cook  had  been  impertinent,  Mrs. 
Maper  complained.  "Why  don't  you  hunt  her?" 
Eileen  replied.  Mrs.  Maper  corrected  the  Irishism 
by  saying,  "  Do  you  mean  dismiss  ? "  Eileen 
hastened  to  accuse  herself  of  Irish  imperfections, 
and  henceforward  begged  to  learn  the  correct 
phrases  or  pronunciations.  Sometimes  she  ventured 
apologetically  to  wonder  if  the  Irish  way  was  not 
more  approved  of  the  dictionary.  Then  they  would 
wander  into  the  library  in  the  apparently  unoccupied 
wing,    and    consult    dictionary    after   dictionary   till 


474  THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS 

Eileen  hoped  Mrs.  Maper's  brain  had  received  an 
indelible  impression. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  a  friendly  orthoepical  dif- 
ference of  this  nature  arose  even  as  Mrs.  Maper  sat 
in  her  palatial  drawing-room  waiting  for  callers,  and 
they  repaired  to  the  library,  Mrs.  Maper  arguing  the 
point  with  loud  good  humour.  A  glass  door  giving 
by  corkscrew  iron  steps  on  the  garden,  banged 
hurriedly  as  they  made  their  chattering  entry.  The 
rows  of  books  —  that  had  gone  with  the  Hall  like 
the  family  portraits  —  stretched  silently  away,  but 
amid  the  smell  of  leather  and  learning,  Eileen's 
lively  nostrils  detected  the  whiff  of  the  weed,  and 
sure  enough  on  the  top  of  a  step-ladder  reposed  a 
plain  briar  pipe  beside  an  unclosed  Greek  folio. 

"  The  scent  is  hot,"  she  thought,  touching  the  still 
warm  bowl.  "  Bob  seems  as  scared  as  a  rabbit  and 
as  learned  as  an  owl."  Suddenly  she  had  difficulty 
in  repressing  a  laugh.  What  if  Bob  were  the  cor- 
responding male  companion ! 

"  I  see  Mr.  Robert  has  forgotten  his  pipe,"  she 
said  audaciously. 

Mrs.  Maper  was  taken  aback.  "  The  —  the  boy  is 
shy,"  she  stammered. 

What !  Was  there  a  son  lying  perdu  in  the  house 
all  this  while  ?  What  fun  !  A  son  who  did  not  even 
go  to  church  or  to  his  mother's  receptions.  But  how 
had  he  managed  to  escape  her?  And  why  did 
nobody  speak   of   him  ?     Ah,  of   course,  he   was   a 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  475 

cripple,  or  facially  disfigured,  morbidly  dreading 
society,  living  among  his  books.  She  had  read  of 
such  things.     Poor  young  man  ! 

After  dinner  she  found  herself  examining  the 
family  album  inquisitively,  but  beyond  a  big-browed 
and  quite  undistorted  baby  nursing  a  kitten,  there 
did  not  seem  anything  remotely  potential,  and  she 
smiled  at  herself  as  she  thought  of  the  difficulty  of 
evolving  bibs  into  briar  pipes  and  developing  Greek 
folios  out  of  kittens. 

From  Mrs.  Maper's  keenness  about  the  University 
Boat  Race  as  it  drew  near,  and  from  her  wearing  on 
the  day  itself  a  dark  blue  gown  trimmed  profusely 
with  ribbons  of  the  same  hue,  Eileen  divined  that 
Bob  was  an  Oxford  man.  This  gave  the  invisible 
deformed  a  new  touch  of  interest,  but  long  ere  this 
Eileen  had  found  a  much  larger  interest  —  the  theatre. 

She  had  never  been  to  the  play,  and  the  Theatre 
Royal  of  the  Black  Hole  was  the  scene  of  her 
induction  into  this  enchantment.  In  those  days  the 
touring  company  system  had  not  developed  to  its 
present  complexity,  and  the  theatre  had  been  closed 
during  the  first  month  or  so  of  Eileen's  residence  in 
Dromedary  Town.  But  at  length,  to  Mrs.  Maper's 
delight,  a  company  arrived  with  a  melodrama,  and  as 
part  of  her  duties,  Eileen,  no  less  excited  over  the 
new  experience  (which  her  Confessor  had  permitted 
her),  drove  with  her  mistress  behind  a  pair  of  spank- 
ing steeds  to  the  Wednesday  matinee.     Mrs.  Maper 


476  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

alleged  her  inability  to  leave  her  home-keeping 
husband  as  the  cause  of  her  daylight  playgoing, 
but  Eileen  maliciously  ascribed  it  to  the  pomp  of 
the  open  carriage. 
•  They  occupied  a  box  and  Eileen  was  glad  they  did. 
For  instead  of  undergoing  the  illusion  of  the  drama, 
she  found  it  killingly  comic  as  soon  as  she  under- 
stood that  it  was  serious.  It  was  all  she  could  do  to 
hide  her  amusement  from  her  entranced  companion, 
and  somehow  this  box  at  the  theatre  reminded  her  of 
the  Convent  room  in  which  she  used  to  sit  listening 
to  the  pious  readings  anent  infant  prodigies.  One 
afternoon  it  came  upon  her  that  here  Mrs.  Maper 
had  learned  her  strange  pump-handle  gestures. 
Here  it  was  that  ladies  worked  arms  up  and  down 
and  pointed  denunciatory  forefingers,  albeit  the 
direction  had  more  reference  to  the  sentiment. 

It  was  not  till  a  comic  opera  came  along  that 
Eileen  was  able  to  take  the  theatre  seriously.  Then 
she  found  some  of  the  melodies  of  the  drawing-room 
scores  wedded  to  life  and  diverting  action,  sometimes 
even  to  poetic  dancing ;  the  first  gleam  of  poetry  the 
stage  gave  her.  When  these  airs  were  lively,  Mrs. 
Maper's  feet  beat  time  and  Eileen  lived  in  the  fear 
that  she  would  arise  and  prance  in  her  box.  It  was 
an  effervescence  of  joyous  life  —  the  factory  girl 
recrudescent  —  and  Eileen's  hand  would  lie  lightly 
on  Mrs.  Maper's  shoulder,  feeling  like  a  lid  over  a 
kettle  about  to  boil. 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  ill 

When  they  came  home  Eileen  would  gratify  her 
mistress  by  imitations  of  comedians.  Presently 
she  ventured  on  the  tragedians,  without  being  seen 
through.  She  even  raised  her  arm  towards  the  ceil- 
ing or  shot  it  towards  the  centre  of  the  carpet  pattern, 
and  Mrs.  Maper  followed  it  spellbound. 

But  from  all  these  monkey  tricks  she  found  relief 
in  her  real  music.  When  she  crooned  the  old  Irish 
songs,  the  Black  Hole  was  washed  away  as  by  the 
soft  Irish  rain,  and  the  bogs  stretched  golden  with 
furze-blossom  and  silver  with  fluffy  fairy  cotton,  and 
at  the  doors  of  the  straggling  cabins  overhung  by 
the  cloud-shadowed  mountains,  blue-cloaked  women 
sat  spinning,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  though 
the  peat  smoke  had  got  into  them. 

VII 

In  such  a  mood  she  was  playing  one  Saturday 
evening  in  the  interval  before  dinner,  when  she 
became  aware  that  somebody  was  listening,  and 
turning  her  head,  she  saw  through  the  Irish  mist 
a  man's  figure  standing  in  the  conservatory.  The 
figure  was  vanishing  when  she  cried  out  a  whit 
huskily,  "  Oh,  pray,  don't  let  me  drive  you  away." 

He  stood  still.  "  If  I  am  not  interrupting  your 
music,"  he  murmured. 

"  Not  at  all,"  she  said,  breaking  it  off  altogether. 

As  the  mist  cleared  she  had  a  vivid  impression  of 
a  tall,  fair  young  man  against  a  background  of  palms. 


478  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

"  Eyes  burning  under  a  white  marble  mantel-piece," 
she  summed  up  his  face.  Could  this  uncrippled, 
rather  good-looking  person  be  Bob  ? 

"Won't  you  come  in,  Mr.  Robert?"  she  said 
riskily. 

"  I  only  wished  to  thank  you,"  he  said,  sliding  a 
step  or  two  into  the  room. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  thank  me  for,"  she  said, 
whirling  her  stool  to  face  him.  "  It's  my  way  of 
amusing  myself."  She  was  glad  she  was  in  her 
evening  frock. 

"  Amusing  yourself !  "     He  looked  aghast. 

"What  else?  I  am  alone —  I  have  nothing  better 
in  the  world  to  do." 

"  Does  it  amuse  you  ?  "  He  was  flushed  now,  even 
the  marble  mantel-piece  ruddied  by  the  flame.  "  I 
wish  it  amused  me." 

Now  it  was  Eileen's  turn  to  gasp.  "  Then  why  do 
you  listen  ? " 

"  I  don't  listen  —  I  bury  myself  as  far  away  as  I 
can." 

"  So  I  have  understood.  Then  what  are  you 
thanking  me  for  ?  " 

"For  what  you  are  doing  for  — "  his  hesitation 
was  barely  perceptible  —  "  my  mother." 

"  Oh  !  "  Eileen  looked  blank.  "  I  thought  you 
meant  for  my  music." 

His  face  showed  vast  relief.  "  Oh,  you  were  talk- 
ing of  your  music  !     Of  course,  of  course,  how  stupid 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  479 

of  me !  That  is  what  has  drawn  me  from  my  hole, 
like  a  rat  to  the  Pied  Piper,  and  I  do  thank  you  most 
sincerely.  But  being  drawn,  what  I  most  wished  to 
thank  the  Piper  for  was  —  " 

"Your  mother  pays  the  Piper  for  that,"  she 
broke  in. 

He  smiled  but  tossed  his  head.  "  Money !  what 
is  that  ? " 

"  It  is  more  than  I  deserve  for  mere  companion- 
ship —  pleasant  drives  and  theatres." 

He  did  not  accept  her  delicate  reticence. 

"  But  you  have  altered  her  wonderfully ! "  he 
cried. 

"  Oh,  I  have  not,"  she  cried,  doubly  startled.  "It's 
just  nothing  that  I  have  done —  nothing."  Then  she 
felt  her  modesty  had  put  her  foot  in  a  bog-hole.  Un- 
seeingly  he  helped  her  out. 

"  It  is  most  kind  of  you  to  put  it  like  that.  But  I 
see  it  in  every  movement,  every  word.  She  imitates 
you  unconsciously  —  I  became  curious  to  see  so  ex- 
cellent a  model,  though  I  had  resolved  not  to  meet 
you.     No,  no,  please,  don't  misunderstand." 

"  I  don't,"  she  said  mischievously.  "  You  have 
now  given  me  three  reasons  for  seeing  me.  You 
need  give  me  none  for  not  seeing  me." 

"  But  you  must  understand,"  he  said,  colouring 
again,  "how  painful  all  this  has  been  for  me  — " 

"  Not  seeing  me  ?  "  she  interpolated  innocently. 

"The  —the  whole  thing,"  he  stammered. 


480  THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS 

"  Yes,  parents  are  tiresome,"  she  said  sympa- 
thetically. 

He  came  nearer  the  music-stool. 

"Are  they  not?  They  came  down  every  year  for 
the  Eights." 

"Is  that  at  Oxford?" 

"Yes." 

She  was  silent ;  her  thumb  flicked  at  a  note  on  the 
keyboard  behind  her. 

"  But  that's  not  what  I  mind  in  them  most —  " 

She  wondered  at  the  rapidity  with  which  his  shy- 
ness was  passing  into  effusiveness.  But  then  was 
she  not  the  "  Mother-Confessor  "  ?  Had  not  even 
her  favourite  nuns  told  her  things  about  their  early 
lives,  even  when  there  was  no  moral  to  be  pointed  ? 
"They're  very  good-hearted,"  she  murmured  apolo- 
getically. "I'm  often  companion  —  in  charity  ex- 
peditions." 

"  It's  easy  to  be  good-hearted  when  you  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  your  money.  This  place  is 
full  of  such  people.  But  I  look  in  vain  for  the 
diviner  impulse." 

Eileen  wondered  if  he  were  a  Dissenter.  But 
then  "the  place  was  full  of  such  people." 

"  You  don't  think  there's  enough  religion  ?  "  she 
murmured. 

"There's  certainly  plenty  of  churches  and  chapels. 
But  I  find  myself  isolated  here.  You  see,  I'm  a 
Socialist." 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  481 

Eileen  crossed  herself  instinctively. 

"  You  don't  believe  in  God !  "  she  cried  in  horror. 
For  the  good  nuns  had  taught  her  that  "  les  so- 
cia/istes"  were  synonymous  with  "  Ic s  at/iees." 

He  laughed.  "  Not,  if  by  God  you  mean  Mammon. 
I  don't  believe  in  Property — we  up  here  in  the  sun 
and  the  others  down  there  in  the  soot." 

"  But  you  are  up  here,"  said  Eileen,  naively. 

"  I  can't  help  it.  My  mother  would  raise  Cain." 
He  smiled  wistfully.  "  She  couldn't  bear  to  see  a 
stranger  helping  father  in  the  factory  manage- 
ment." 

"  Then  you  are  down  there." 

"  Quite  so.  I  work  as  hard  as  any  one  even  if  my 
labour  isn't  manual.  I  dress  like  an  ordinary  hand, 
too,  though  my  mother  doesn't  know  that,  for  I 
change  at  the  office." 

"  But  what  good  does  that  do?  " 

"  It  satisfies  my  conscience." 

"  And  I  suppose  the  men  like  it  ?  " 

"  No,  that's  the  strange  part.  They  don't.  And 
father  only  laughs.  But  one  must  persist.  At 
Oxford  I  worked  under  Ruskin." 

"  Oh,  you're  an  artist !  " 

"  No,  I  didn't  mean  that  part  of  Ruskin's  work. 
His  gospel  of  labour  —  we  had  a  patch  for  digging." 

"  What  —  real  spades  !  " 

"  Did  you  imagine  we  called  a  spoon  a  spade  ?  ' 
he  said,  a  whit  resentfully. 


482  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

Eileen  smiled.  "  No,  but  I  can't  imagine  you 
using  a  common  or  garden  spade." 

"  You  are  thinking  of  my  hands."  He  looked  at 
them,  not  without  complacency,  Eileen  thought,  as  she 
herself  wondered  where  he  had  got  his  long  white 
fingers  from.  "  But  it  is  a  couple  of  years  ago,"  he 
explained.     "  It  was  hard  work,  I  assure  you." 

"  Did  your  mother  know  ?  "  Eileen  asked  with  a 
little  whimsical  look. 

"Of  course  not.     She  would  have  been  horrified." 

"  Well,  but  most  people  would  be  surprised." 

"  Yes.  Put  your  muscle  into  an  oar  or  a  cricket 
bat  and  you  are  a  hero  ;  put  your  muscle  into  a  spade 
and  you  are  a  madman." 

"  You  think  it's  vice  versa  ? "  queried  Eileen, 
ingenuously. 

"  Much  more.  At  least,"  he  stammered  and 
coloured  again,  "  I  don't  pose  as  a  hero  but 
simply — " 

"  As  what  ?  "  Eileen  still  looked  innocent. 

"  I  simply  think  work  is  the  noblest  function  of 
man,"  he  burst  forth.     "  Don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not,"  answered  Eileen.  "  Work  is  a  curse. 
If  the  serpent  had  not  tempted  Eve  to  break  God's 
commandment,  we  should  still  be  basking  in 
Paradise." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.     "  You  believe  that  ?  " 

"  Isn't  it  in  the  Bible  ? "  she  answered,  seriously 
astonished. 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  483 

"  Whatever  the  primitive  Semitic  allegorist  may 
have  thought,  work  is  a  blessing,  not  a  curse." 

"  Then  you  are  an  atheist !  "  Eileen  recoiled  from 
this  strange  young  man. 

"  Ah,  you  shrink  back ! "  he  said  in  tones  of 
bitter  pleasure.     "  I  told  you  I  lived  in  isolation." 

Eileen's  humour  shot  forth  candidly.  "  You'll  not 
be  isolated  when  you  die." 

His  bitterness  passed  into  genial  superiority. 
"You  mean  I'll  go  to  hell.  How  can  you  believe 
anything  so  horrible?" 

"  Why  is  that  horrible  for  me  to  believe  ?  For 
you  — "  And  she  filled  up  the  sentence  with  a 
smile. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  do  believe  it." 

"  There's  nothing  you  seem  to  believe.  I  do  hon- 
estly think  that  you  can't  be  saved  if  you  don't 
believe." 

"  I  accept  that.  The  question,  however,  is  what 
kind  of  belief  and  what  kind  of  saving.  Do  you 
suppose  Plato  is  in  hell  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.  He  invented  Platonic  love,  didn't 
he?  So  that  might  save  him."  She  looked  at  him 
with  her  great  grey  eyes  —  he  couldn't  tell  whether 
she  was  quizzing  him  or  not. 

"  Is  that  all  you  know  of  Plato  ?  " 

"  I  know  he  was  a  Greek  philosopher.  But  I  only 
learned  Greek  roots  at  the  Convent.  So  Plato  is 
Greek  to  me." 


484  THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS 

"  He  has  been  beautifully  Englished  by  the  Master 
of  my  College.     I  wish  you'd  read  him." 

"  Is  the  translation  in  the  library  ?  " 

"  Of  course  —  with  lots  of  other  interesting  books, 
and  such  queer  folios  and  quartos  and  first  editions. 
The  collector  was  a  man  of  taste.  Why  do  you  never 
come  and  let  me  show  them  you  ?  " 

"You'd  run  away." 

"No,  I  wouldn't,"  he  smiled  encouragingly. 

"  Yes,  you  would.     And  leave  your  pipe  on  Plato  !  " 

He  laughed.  "Was  I  rude?  But  I  didn't  know 
you  then.  Come  to-morrow  afternoon  and  show 
you've  forgiven  me." 

The  new  interest  was  sufficiently  tempting.  But 
her  maidenliness  held  back.  "  I'll  come  with  your 
mother." 

Disgust  lent  him  wit.  "  You're  her  companion  — 
not  she  yours." 

"True.     Nor  I  yours." 

"Then  I'll  come  here." 

"  Bringing  the  Plato  and  the  folios  —  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  You  can't  forbid  me  my  own  drawing- 
room." 

"  I  can  run  away  and  leave  my  crochet-hook 
behind." 

"  You'll  find  me  hooked  on  whenever  you  return." 

"  Well,  if  you're  determined  —  by  hook  or  by  crook! 
But  you're  not  going  to  convert  me  to  Socialism  ?  " 

"  I  won't  promise." 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  485 

"You  must.     I  don't  mind  reading  Plato." 

"  He's  worse.     He  isn't  a  Christian  at  all." 

"  I  don't  mind  that.  He's  B.C.  He  couldn't  help 
it.     But  you  Socialists  came  after  Christ." 

"  How  do  you  know  Socialism  isn't  a  return  to 
Him  ?  " 

"  Is  it  ?  " 

"  Aha !  You  are  getting  interested.  .  .  .  But  I 
hear  my  mother  coming  down  to  dinner.  To  be 
continued  in  our  next.     A  dcmain,  is  it  not  ? " 

He  held  out  his  shapely  white  hand,  and  hastened 
through  the  conservatory  into  the  garden. 

"  Going  to  dig  ? "  Eileen  called  after  him  mali- 
ciously. 

VIII 

Eileen  became  interested  in  Robert  Maper,  for  the 
old  books  he  opened  up  to  her  were  quite  new  and 
enlarging.  She  had  imagined  the  Church  replacing 
Paganism  as  light  replaced  darkness.  Now  she  felt 
that  it  was  only  as  gas  replaced  candle-light.  The 
darkness  was  less  Egyptian  than  the  nuns  insinuated. 
Plato  in  particular  was  a  veritable  chandelier.  It 
occurred  to  her  suddenly  that  he  might  be  on  the 
black  list.  But  she  was  afraid  to  ask  her  Confessor 
for  fear  of  hearing  her  doubt  confirmed.  To  tell  the 
good  father  of  the  semi-secret  meetings  in  the  library 
would  have  been  superfluous,  since  there  was  nothing 
to  conceal  even  from  Mrs.  Maper,  though  that  lady 


486  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

did  not  happen  to  know  of  them.  Eileen  did  not 
even  use  the  garden  door.  Besides,  there  was  never 
a  formal  appointment,  not  infrequently,  indeed,  a  dis- 
appointment, when  the  library  held  nothing  but  books. 
Robert  Maper  merely  provided  that  possibility  of  an 
innocent  double  life,  without  which  existence  would 
have  been  too  savourless  for  Eileen.  Even  a  single 
line  of  railway  always  appeared  dismal  to  her ;  she 
liked  the  great  junctions  with  their  bewildering  inter- 
tanglements,  their  possibilities  of  collision.  And 
now  that  Lieutenant  Doherty  had  faded  away  into 
Afghanistan  and  silence  —  he  did  not  even  acknow- 
ledge the  letter  announcing  her  approaching  mar- 
riage —  Robert  Maper  proved  a  useful  substitute. 

One  day  Mr.  Maper  senior  invited  her  to  drive 
down  with  him  and  go  over  the  factory,  and  as  Mrs. 
Maper  was  not  averse  from  impressing  her  employee 
by  the  sight  of  the  other  employes,  she  was  permitted 
to  go.  Nothing,  however,  would  induce  Mrs.  Maper 
to  adventure  herself  in  these  scenes  of  her  early  life, 
touching  which  she  professed  a  sovereign  ignorance. 
"  Machines  are  so  clattery,"  she  said.  "  My  head 
wouldn't  stand  them.  I  once  went  to  that  exhibition 
in  London  and  I  said  to  myself,  never  no  more  for 
this  gal." 

"  And  you  never  did  go  any  more  since  you  were 
a  girl?"  asked  the  companion,  with  professional 
pointedness. 

"  No,  never  no  more,"  replied  Mrs.  Maper,  serenely, 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  487 

"  once  is  too  often,  as  the  gal  said  when  the  black 
man  kissed  her." 

Eileen  laughed  dutifully  at  this  quotation  from  the 
latest  comic  opera,  and  went  off,  delighted  to  com- 
panion the  husband  by  way  of  change.  He  proved 
quite  a  new  man,  too,  in  his  own  element,  bringing 
the  most  complicated  machinery  to  the  level  of  her 
understanding.  Room  after  room  they  passed 
through,  department  after  department  full  of  tire- 
less machinery,  and  tired  men  and  women,  who 
seemed  slaves  to  the  whims  of  fantastic  iron  mon- 
sters, all  legs  and  arms  and  wheels.  It  took  a  morn- 
ing to  see  everything,  down  to  the  pasting  and  drying 
and  packing  rooms,  and  as  a  last  treat  Mr.  Maper 
took  her  to  the  engine-room,  whence  he  said  came 
the  power  that  turned  those  myriad  wheels,  moved 
those  myriad  levers,  in  whatever  department  they 
might  be  and  whatever  their  function.  Eileen  gazed 
long  at  the  mighty  engine,  rapt  in  reverie.  She  could 
scarcely  tear  herself  away,  and  when  at  last  Mr. 
Maper  brought  her  into  the  counting-house,  she  had 
forgotten  that  she  must  meet  his  son  there.  The 
white-browed  clerk  in  corduroys  did  not,  however, 
raise  his  eyes  from  his  ledger,  and  Eileen  was  grate- 
ful to  him  for  preserving  the  piquancy  of  their 
relation. 

She  did  not  find  it  so  piquant,  though,  in  the 
library  next  Sunday  afternoon  when  he  was  clutch- 
ing at  her  hand  and  asking  her  to  be  his  wife.     She 


488  THE  SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

awoke  as  from  a  dream  to  the  perception  of  a  solemn 
and  grotesque  fact. 

"  Oh,  please ! "  and  she  tried  to  tear  her  hand 
away. 

He  clung  on  desperately.  "Eileen  —  don't  say 
you  don't  care  at  all." 

"  I'm  not  Eileen,  and  I  particularly  dislike  you  at 
this  moment.     Let  me  have  my  hand,  please." 

He  dropped  it  like  a  stinging  nettle.  "  I  was 
hoping  you'd  let  me  keep  it,"  he  murmured. 

"Why?"  She  was  simple  and  pitiless.  "Be- 
cause we  read  Plato  together?  That  was  platonic 
enough,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  You  can  jest  about  what  breaks  my  heart  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  sorry.     I  like  you." 

His  breathing  changed,  "  like  a  fish  thrown  back 
into  the  water,"  Eileen  thought.  She  hastened  to 
add,  "But  it's  not  what  a  wife  should  feel." 

"  How  do  you  know  what  a  wife  should  feel  ?  " 

Eileen  screwed  up  her  forehead.  "If  I  felt  it,  I 
should  know,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  you  mightn't.  You've  liked  to  come  here 
and  talk  to  me." 

"  Because  I  like  books.  And  you  talk  like  a 
book." 

"  That  was  before  I  fell  in  love.  I  didn't  talk  like 
a  book  just  now." 

"  When  you  took  my  hand  !  More  like  a  book  than 
ever.     I've  read  it  all  —  lots  of  times." 


THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS  489 

"  Oh,  Eil  —  Miss  O'Keeffe  —  you  are  very  cruel." 

Eileen  smiled.  "I  am  not  —  I'm  very  kind — I 
threw  you  back  into  the  water." 

He  gasped,  as  though  out  of  it  again.  "  Do  you 
mean  I  am  not  grown  enough  ?  " 

She  flushed  and  improvised  on  his  theme.  "  Not 
quite  that.  You  hooked  yourself,  as  you  threatened 
to  do.  But  suppose  I  had  landed  you.  You  know 
the  next  step  —  hot  water.  What  a  lot  you  would 
have  got  into,  too  !  " 

"  You  are  thinking  of  my  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes,  raising  Cain,  I  think  you  said  once.  Oh, 
dear,  swim  about  and  be  thankful."  And  a  vision 
of  Mrs.  Maper's  amazement  twitched  the  corners  of 
her  lips  and  made  them  more  enchanting. 

"I'm  not  so  cold-blooded  as  all  that.  But  if  you 
do  throw  me  back,  let  it  be  with  the  promise  to  take 
me  again,  when  I  am  grown.  I  don't  say  it  to  tempt 
you,  but  you  know  I  shall  be  very  rich." 

"  Indigestible,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  please  let  us  drop  that  metaphor !  Meta- 
phors can  never  go  on  all  fours." 

"Certainly  not  when  they  have  fins." 

"Don't  jest,  Eil — Miss  O'Keeffe!  Let  me  re- 
deem   you  from  your  sordid  life." 

"Why  is  it  sordid  ?     You  said  work  was  divine." 

"  You  can  work  in  a  higher  sphere." 

"And  this  is  the  Socialist !  I  really  thought  you'd 
want  me  to  turn  factory  lass." 


490  THE  SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS 

"  You  are  laughing  at  me." 

"  I  am  perfectly  serious.  I  won't  drag  you  down 
from  Socialism,  and  a  head-shawl  wouldn't  become 
me." 

"Why,  you'd  look  sweet  in  it.  Dear,  dear,  Miss 
O'Keeffe  — " 

"Good-by." 

"  No,  you  shan't  go."  He  barred  her  way.  Her 
airiness  had  given  him  new  hope. 

"If  you  don't  behave  sensibly,  I'll  go  altogether  — 
give  notice." 

"Then  I'll  follow  you  to  your  next  place." 

"No  followers  allowed.  Seriously,  I'll  leave  if 
you  are  foolish." 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  abruptly.  "  Let's  go  on 
reading  Plato,"  and  he  turned  to  the  book. 

"  No,  no  more  Dialogues,  in  or  out  of  Plato." 

She  was  smiling  but  stern.  He  opened  the  library 
door  and  bowed  as  she  passed  out. 

"  Remember,"  he  said.  "  I  will  remain  foolish  for 
ever." 

"  You  have  too  long  an  opinion  of  yourself,"  was 
Eileen's  parting  flash. 

IX 

The  next  evening  she  sat  in  the  drawing-room 
before  dinner,  softly  playing  an  accompaniment  to 
her  thoughts.  Why  didn't  she  feel  anything  about 
Robert  Maper  except  a  mild  irritation  at  the  destruc- 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  491 

tion  of  so  truly  platonic  a  converse  ?  In  a  book,  of 
which  his  proposal  savoured,  she  would  have  found 
him  quite  a  romantic  person.  In  the  actuality  she 
felt  as  frigid  as  if  his  marble  forehead  was  chilling 
her,  and  what  she  remembered  most  acutely  was  his 
fishlike  gasping.  Then,  too,  the  contradictoriness 
of  his  social  attitude,  his  desire  to  make  her  a  rich 
drone,  his  shame  at  his  mother,  his  reclusive  shyness 
—  all  the  weaknesses  of  the  man  —  came  to  obscure 
her  sense  of  his  literary  idealism,  if  not,  indeed,  to 
reveal  it  as  a  mere  coquetry  with  fine  ideas  and 
coarse  clothes.  And  then  for  a  moment  the  humour 
of  being  Mrs.  Maper's  daughter-in-law  appealed  to 
her,  and  she  laughed  to  herself  in  soft  duet  with  the 
music. 

And  in  the  middle  of  the  duet  Mrs.  Maper  herself 
burst  in,  with  her  bodice  half  hooked  and  her  hair 
half  done. 

"  What's  this  I  hear,  Miss  Hirish  Himpudence,  of 
your  goings-on  with  my  son  ? " 

Eileen  swung  round  on  her  stool.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  you  can't  get  out  of  it  by  beggin'  my  par- 
don, creepin'  into  the  library  like  a  mouse  —  and 
it's  a  nice  sly  mouse  you  are,  too,  but  there's  never 
a  mouse  without  its  cat  —  " 

"  She'd  have  done  better  to  do  your  hair  and  mind 
her  business,"  said  Eileen,  calmly. 

Mrs.   Maper's  forefinger  shot  heavenwards.      "  It 


492  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

was  you  as  ought  to  have  minded  your  business.  I 
didn't  pay  you  like  a  lady  and  feed  you  like  a 
duchess  to  set  your  cap  at  your  betters.  But 
I  told  Mr.  Maper  what  'ud  come  of  it  if  we  let 
you  heat  with  us,  though  I  didn't  dream  what  a 
sly  little  mouse  —  " 

The  torrent  went  on  and  on.  Eileen  as  in  a  daze 
watched  the  theatric  forefinger — now  pointed  at  the 
floor  as  if  to  the  mouse-hole,  now  leaping  ceiling- 
wards  like  the  cat,  —  and  her  main  feeling  was  pro- 
fessional. She  was  watching  her  pupil,  storing  up 
in  her  memory  the  mispronunciations  and  vulgarisms 
for  later  insinuative  improvement.  Only  a  tithe  of 
her  was  aware  of  the  impertinence.  But  suddenly 
she  heard  herself  interrupting  quietly. 

"  I  shall  not  sleep  under  your  roof  another  night." 
Mrs.  Maper  paused  so  abruptly  that  her  forefinger 
fell  limp.  She  was  not  sure  she  meant  to  give  her 
companion  notice,  and  have  the  trouble  of  training 
another,  and  she  certainly  did  not  wish  to  be  dis- 
missed instead  of   dismissing. 

"Silly  chit!"  she  said  in  more  conciliatory  tones. 
"And  where  will  you  sleep?" 

But  Eileen  now  felt  she  must  obey  her  own  voice 
—  the  voice  of  her  outraged  pride,  perhaps  even 
of  Brian  Boru  himself.  "  Good-by.  I'll  take  some 
things  in  a  handbag  and  send  for  my  box  in  the 
morning." 

Mrs.  Maper's  hand  pointed  to  the  ceiling.     "  And 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  493 

is  that  the  way  you  treat  a  lady  —  you're  no  lady,  I 
tell  you  that.  I  demand  a  month's  notice  or  I  shall 
summons  you." 

At  this  juncture  it  occurred  to  Eileen  that  this 
might  have  been  her  mother-in-law,  and  a  smile 
danced  into  her  eyes. 

"  Himpudent  Hirish  hussy  !  Oh,  but  I'll  have  the 
lore  of  you.  Don't  forget  I'm  the  wife  of  a  Justice 
of  the  Peace." 

"Very  well;  you  get  Justice,  I  want  Peace."  And 
Eileen  fled  to  her  room. 

She  had  hardly  begun  packing  her  handbag  when 
she  heard  the  door  locked  from  the  outside  with 
a  savage  snap  and  a  cry  of,  "I'll  learn  you  who's 
mistress   here,  my  lady." 

Eileen  smiled.  She  was  only  on  the  second  floor, 
and  captivity  revived  all  her  girlish  prankishness. 
She  now  began  to  enjoy  the  whole  episode.  That 
she  was  out  of  place,  out  of  character,  out  of  lodg- 
ing even,  was  nothing  beside  the  humour  of  this 
incursion  into  real  life  of  the  melodrama  she  had 
mocked  at.  Was  she  not  the  innocent  heroine  en- 
trapped by  the  villain  ?  Fortunately,  she  would  not 
need  the  hero  to  rescue  her.  She  went  on  packing. 
When  her  handbag  was  ready  she  looked  about  for 
means  to  escape.  She  opened  her  windows  and 
studied  the  drop  and  the  odd  bits  of  helpful  rain- 
pipe.  Descent  was  not  so  easy  as  she  had  imagined. 
Short    of   tearing  the    sheets    into    strips   (and    that 


494  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

might  really  bring  her  within  the  J.P.'s  purview) 
or  of  picking  the  lock  (which  seemed  even  more 
burglarious,  not  to  mention  more  difficult)  she  might 
really  remain  trapped.  However,  there  would  be 
time  to  think  properly  when  she  had  packed  her 
big  box.  Half  an  hour  passed  cheerfully  in  the 
folding  of  dresses  to  an  underplay  of  planned  es- 
capes, and  she  had  just  locked  the  box,  when  Mrs. 
Maper's  voice  pierced  the  door  panel. 

"Well,  are  you  ready  to  come  to  supper?  '! 

The  governess's  instinct  corrected  "dinner."  Mrs. 
Maper  when  excited  was  always  tripping  into  this 
betrayal  of  auld  lang  syne,  but  she  preserved  a  dis- 
dainful silence. 

"  Eileen,  why  don't  you  hanser  ?  " 

Still  silence.     The  key  grated  in  the  lock. 

Eileen  looked  round  desperately.  The  thought  of 
meeting  Mrs.  Maper  again  was  intolerable.  The 
mirrored  door  of  the  rifled  wardrobe  stood  ajar, 
revealing  an  enticing  emptiness.  Snatching  up  her 
handbag  and  her  hat,  she  crept  inside  and  closed 
the  door  noiselessly  upon  herself.  "  The  wardrobe 
mouse,"  she  thought,  smiling. 

"Well,  my  lady!"  Mrs.  Maper  dashed  through 
the  door,  in  her  dinner-gown  and  diamonds,  her  fore- 
finger hovering,  balanced,  between  earth  and  heaven. 
She  saw  nothing  but  an  answering  figure  ribboned 
and  jewelled,  that  dashed  at  her  and  pointed  its  fore- 
finger menacingly. 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  495 

The  appearance  of  this  figure  as  from  behind  the 
glass  shut  out  from  her  mind  the  idea  of  another  fig- 
ure behind  it.  The  packed  box,  neat  and  new- 
labelled,  the  absence  of  the  handbag  and  of  any  sign 
of  occupancy,  the  open  windows,  the  silence,  all  told 
their  lying  tale. 

"  The  Hirish  witch  !  "  she  screamed. 

She  ran  from  one  window  to  the  other  seeking  for 
a  sign  of  the  escaped  or  the  escapade.  She  was  re- 
lieved to  find  no  batter  of  brains  and  blood  spoiling 
the  green  lawn.  How  had  the  trick  been  done  ?  It 
did  not  even  occur  to  her  to  look  under  the  bed,  so 
hypnotised  was  she  by  the  sense  of  a  flown  bird. 
Eileen  almost  betrayed  herself  by  giggling,  as  at 
the  real  stage  melodrama. 

When  Mrs.  Maper  ran  downstairs  to  interrogate 
the  servants  —  eruption  into  the  kitchen  was  one  of 
her  incurable  habits  —  Eileen  slipped  through  the 
wide-flung  door,  down  the  staircase,  and  then,  seeing 
the  butler  ahead,  turned  sharp  off  to  the  little-used 
part  of  the  corridor  and  so  into  the  library.  She 
made  straight  for  the  iron  staircase  to  the  grounds, 
and  came  face  to  face  with  Robert  Maper. 

Twilight  was  not  his  hour  for  the  library  —  she 
saw  even  through  her  perturbation  that  he  was  pac- 
ing it  in  fond  memory.  His  face  lighted  up  with 
amazement,  as  though  the  dead  had  come  up  through 
a  tombstone. 

"  Good-by  !  "  she  said,  shifting  her  handbag  to  her 


496  THE    SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

left  hand  and  holding  out  her  right.  Her  self-pos- 
session pleased  her. 

"What!  '  he  cried.  And  again  he  had  the  gasp 
of  a  fish  out  of  water. 

"  Yes,  I  came  to  say  good-by." 

"You  are  leaving  us  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Oh,  and  it  is  I  that  have  driven  you  away !  " 

"  No,  no,  don't  reproach  yourself,  please  don't. 
Good-by." 

He  gasped  in  silence.  She  gave  a  little  laugh. 
"  Now  that  I  offer  you  my  hand,  it  is  you  who  won't 
take  it." 

He  seized  it.  "Oh,  Eil  — Miss  O'Keeffe  — let 
me  keep  it." 

"  Please  !  we  settled  that." 

"  It  will  never  be  settled  till  you  are  my  wife." 

"  Listen  !  "  said  Eileen,  dramatically.  "  In  a  few 
minutes  your  mother  and  father  will  be  seated  at 
dinner.  Your  mother  will  have  told  your  father  I've 
left  the  house  in  disgrace.  Don't  interrupt.  Would 
you  be  prepared  to  walk  in  upon  them  with  me  on 
your  arm  and  to  say,  '  Mother,  father,  Miss  O'Keeffe 
has  done  me  the  honour  of  consenting  to  be  my 
wife '  ?  " 

With  her  warm  hand  still  in  his,  how  could  he 
hesitate?     "Oh,   Eileen,  if  you'd  only  let  me!" 

The  imagination  of  the  tableau  was  only  less 
tempting    to    Eileen.     It   was  procurable  —  she  had 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  497 

only  to  move  her  little  finger,  or  rather  not  to  move 
it.  But  the  very  facility  of  production  lessened  the 
tableau's  temptingness.  The  triumph  was  complete 
without  the  vulgar  actuality. 

"  I  can't,"  she  said,  withdrawing  her  hand.  "  But 
you  are  a  good  fellow.  Good-by."  She  moved 
towards  the  garden  steps.  He  was  incredulous  of  the 
utter  end.     "  I  shall  write  to  you,"  he  said. 

"  This  is  a  short  cut,"  she  murmured,  descending. 
As  her  feet  touched  the  grass  she  smiled.  How  they 
had  both  tried  to  stop  her,  mother  and  son  !  She 
hurried  through  the  shrubbery,  and  by  a  side  gate 
was  out  on  the  old  wagon  road.  More  slowly,  but 
still  at  a  good  pace,  she  descended  towards  the  Black 
Hole,  now  beginning  to  twinkle  and  glimmer  with 
lights,  and  far  less  grimy  and  prosaic  than  in  the 
crude  day. 

X 

While  packing  her  big  box,  she  had  decided  to  try 
to  lodge  that  night  with  a  programme-girl  she  had 
got  to  know  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  and  the  motive 
that  set  her  pace  was  the  desire  to  find  her  before 
she  had  started  for  the  theatre. 

The  girl  usually  hovered  about  Mrs.  Maper's  box. 
Once  Eileen  had  asked  her  why  she  wasn't  in  evidence 
the  week  before.  "  Lord;miss,"  she  said,  "  didn't  you 
recognise  me  on  the  stage  ?  " 

Eileen    thus    discovered    that    the    girl    sometimes 


498  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

figured  as  a  super,  when  travelling  companies  came 
with  sensational  pieces,  relying  upon  local  talent, 
hastily  drilled,  for  the  crowds.  Mary  became  a 
Greek  slave,  or  a  Billingsgate  fishwife,  with  amusing 
unexpectedness. 

Eileen's  next  discovery  about  the  girl  was  that 
she  supported  a  paralysed  mother,  though  the  bed- 
ridden creature  on  inspection  proved  to  be  more 
cheerful  than  the  visitors  she  depressed.  Mr. 
Maper  had  sent  her  grapes  from  his  hothouse  only 
a  few  days  before,  and  in  taking  them  to  the  little 
house  Eileen  had  noticed  a  "  Bedroom  to  Let." 

To  her  relief,  when  she  reached  the  bleak  street, 
she  could  see  that  though  the  blind  was  down,  the 
bill  was  still  in  the  window.  Her  spirits  bubbled  up 
again.  Ere  she  could  knock  at  the  door,  the  pro- 
gramme-girl bounced  through  it,  hatted  and  cloaked 
for  the  theatre. 

"Miss  O'Keeffe!'1  She  almost  staggered  back- 
ward.    Eileen's  face  worked  tragically  in  the  gloom. 

"  There  are  villains  after  me  ! "  Eileen  gasped. 
"Take  this  bag,  it  contains  the  family  jewels.  That 
bedroom  of  yours,  it  is  still  to  let  ? " 

"Yes,  miss." 

"  I  take  it  for  to-night,  perhaps  for  ever.  The 
avenger  is  on  my  footsteps.  The  law  may.  follow 
me,  but  I  shall  defy  its  myrmidons  in  my  trackless 
eyrie." 

"  Oh,    Miss    O'Keeffe !       You    frighten    me.       I 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  499 

shouldn't  like  to  have  all  these  jewels  in  my  house, 
and  with  my  mother  tied  to  her  bed." 

Eileen  burst  into  a  laugh.  "  Oh,  miss  !  '  she 
said,  mimicking  the  programme-girl.  "  Didn't  you 
recognise  me  on  the  stage  ? " 

"  Mary  Murchison  !  "  gasped  the  programme-girl. 
"  Oh,  Miss  O'Keeffe,  how  wonderful !  You  nearly 
made  my  heart  stop  —  " 

"  I  am  sorry,  but  I  do  want  to  take  your  bedroom. 
I've  left  Mrs.  Maper,  and  you  are  not  to  ask  any 
questions." 

"  I  haven't  time,  I'm  late  already.  Fortunately, 
I  only  come  on  in  the  second  act." 

"That's  nice;  put  my  bag  in  and  I'll  come  to 
the  theatre  with  you."  The  thought  was  impromptu, 
an  evening  with  a  bedridden  woman  was  not  exhila- 
rating at  such  a  crisis. 

"You  ought  to  be  an  actress  yourself,"  the  pro- 
gramme-girl remarked  admiringly  on  the  way. 

Eileen  shuddered.  "  No,  thank  you.  Scream  the 
same  thing  night  after  night  —  like  a  parrot  with  not 
even  one's  own  words  —  I  should  die  of  monotony." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  at  all  monotonous.  It's  a  different 
audience  every  night,  and  even  the  laughs  come  in 
different  places.  My  parts  have  mostly  been  think- 
ing parts  —  to-night  I'm  a  prince  without  a  word  — 
but  still  it's  fun." 

"But  how  can  you  bear  strange  men  staring  at 
you  t 


500  THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS 

"  One  gets  used  to  it.  The  first  time  they  put 
me  in  tights  I  blushed  all  through  the  piece,  but 
they  had  painted  me  so  thick  it  wasn't  visible." 

"  In  short,  you  blushed  unseen." 

Eileen  wished  to  go  to  the  pit,  but  her  new  friend 
would  not  hear  of  her  not  occupying  her  habitual 
box,  since  she  knew  that  the  management  would  be 
glad  to  have  it  occupied  if  it  were  empty.  This 
proved  to  be  the  case,  and  put  the  seal  upon 
Eileen's  enjoyment  of  the  situation.  To  spend  her 
evening  in  Mrs.   Maper's  box  was  indeed  a  climax. 

She  borrowed  theatre-paper  and  scribbled  a  note 
to  her  ex-employer,  giving  the  address  for  her  trunk. 
An  orange  and  some  biscuits  sufficed  for  her  dinner. 

Not  till  she  was  in  her  little  bedroom,  surrounded 
by  pious  texts,  did  she  break  down  in  tears. 


XI 

The  next  morning,  as  she  sat  answering  advertise- 
ments, the  programme-girl  knocked  at  the  door  of 
the  bedroom  and  announced  that  Mr.  Maper  had 
called. 

Eileen  turned  red.  It  was  too  disconcerting. 
Would  he  never  take  "no"  for  an  answer?  "I 
won't  see  him.     I  can't  see  him,"  she  cried. 

The  girl  departed  and  returned.  "  Oh,  Miss 
O'Keeffe,  he  begs  so  for  only  one  word." 

"  The  word  is  '  no.'  " 


THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS  501 

"After  he's  been  so  kind  as  to  bring  your  box 
down  !  " 

"  Oh,  has  he?     Then  the  word  is  'thanks.' ' 

"  Please,  miss,  would  you  mind  giving  it  to  him 
yourself  ?  " 

"Who's  Irish,  you  or  I  ?  I  won't  speak  to  him 
at  all,  I  tell  you." 

"  But  I  don't  like  to  send  him  away  like  that, 
when  he's  been  so  kind  to  mother." 

"When  has  he  been  kind  to  your  mother?" 

"  Those  grapes  you  brought — " 

"  That  was  old  Mr.  Maper." 

"So  is  this." 

"  Oh  !  "  Eileen  was  quite  taken  aback,  for  once. 
"All  right,  I'll  go  into  the  parlour." 

He  was  infinitely  courteous  and  apologetic.  He 
had  been  very  anxious  about  her.  Why  had  she 
been  so  unkind  as  to  leave,  and  without  ever  a  good- 
by  to  him  ? 

"  Oh,  hasn't  your  wife  told  you,  then  ? " 

"  She  has  told  me  you  were  rude,  and  that  you  left 
without  notice,  and  she  wants  me  to  prosecute  you. 
I  suppose  you  lost  your  temper.  You  found  her 
rather  difficult." 

"  I  found  her  impossible,"  said  Eileen,  frigidly. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  understand."  He  was  flushed  and 
unhappy.     "  You  found  her  impossible  to  live  with  ?  " 

Eileen  nodded  ;  she  would  have  added  "  or  to 
make  a  lady  of,"  but  he  looked  so  purple  and  agitated 


502  THE  SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

that  she  charitably  forbore.  She  was  wondering 
whether  Mrs.  Maper  could  really  have  been  so  mean 
as  to  omit  her  share  in  the  quarrel,  but  he  went  on 
eagerly  :  — 

"  Quite  so,  quite  so.  And  what  do  you  think  it 
has  been  for  me  ?  " 

She  murmured  inarticulate  sympathy. 

"  Ah,  if  you  only  knew !  Oh,  my  dear  Miss 
O'Keeffe,  while  you've  been  in  the  house,  it's  been 
like  heaven." 

"  I'm  glad  I've  given  satisfaction,"  she  said  drily. 

"  Then  what  do  you  give  by  going  ?  I  assure  you 
the  day  you  came  to  the  works  it  was  like  heaven 
there  too." 

"  You  forget  the  temperature,"  Eileen  smiled. 
"  However,  it  was  a  very  nice  day,  and  I  thank  you. 
But  I  can't  come  back  after  —  " 

"  Who  asks  you  to  come  back  ? "  he  broke  in. 
"  No,  I  should  be  sorry  to  see  you  again  in  a  menial 
position,  you  with  your  divine  gifts  of  beauty  and 
song.  The  idea  of  your  getting  a  new  place,"  he 
added  with  a  fall  into  prose,  "makes  me  feel  sick." 

"  I  value  your  sympathy,  but  it  is  misplaced,"  she 
replied  freezingly. 

"  Sympathy  !  It  isn't  sympathy  !  It's  jealousy. 
Oh,  my  dear  Miss  O'Keeffe  !  "  He  seized  her  limp 
hand.     "  Eileen  !     Let  me  help  you  —  " 

As  the  true  significance  of  his  visit,  and  of  the 
purple  agitation,  dawned  upon  her,  the  grim  humour 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  503 

of  the  position  overbore  every  other  feeling.  Her 
hand  still  in  his,  she  began  to  laugh,  and  no  biting  of 
her  lips  could  do  more  than  change  the  laugh  into 
an  undignified  snigger.  Instead  of  profiting  by  his 
grip  of  her,  he  dropped  her  hand  suddenly  as  if  a 
hose  had  been  turned  on  his  passion,  and  this  sur- 
render of  her  hand  reduced  Eileen  to  a  passable 
gravity. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Mr.  Maper.  But  really,  life  is 
too  horribly  amusing." 

"I'm  very  sorry  it's  me  that  affords  you  amuse- 
ment," he  said  stiffly. 

"  No,  it  isn't  you  at  all,  it's  just  the  whole  thing. 
You've  been  most  kind  all  along.  And  I  dare  say 
you  mean  to  be  kind  now.  But  I  don't  really  need 
any  help.  Your  wife's  threats  of  prosecution  are 
ridiculous,  she  made  my  longer  stay  impossible.  I 
could  more  justly  claim  a  month's  notice  from  her." 

"That's  what  I  thought.  I've  brought  you  a 
month's   salary."     He    fumbled  in    his    pocket-book. 

"  Don't  trouble.     I  shall  not  accept  it." 

"  You  shall,"  he  said  sternly.  "  Or  I'll  prosecute 
you." 

Eileen's  laugh  rang  out  clear.  This  time  he 
laughed  too. 

"  Now,  don't  you  call  life  amusing  ?  ,:  she  said. 
"  Here  am  I  to  take  a  cheque  under  penalty  of  having 
to  pay  it." 

"  Well,  which  shall  it  be  ?  " 


504  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

"  Such  a  cheque  is  charming."  And  she  held  out 
her  hand.  He  put  the  cheque  in  it  and  shook  both 
warmly.     They  parted,  the  best  of  friends. 

"Come  to  me  for  a  character,  of  course,"  he  said. 

"  Don't  you  come  to  me,"  replied  Eileen,  with  a 
roguish  smile. 

XII 

Eileen's  next  place  was  —  as  if  by  contrast  —  with 
a  much  more  genteel  family,  and  a  much  poorer, 
though  it  flew  higher  socially.  It  lived  in  a  house, 
half  in  a  fashionable  London  terrace,  half  in  a  shabby 
side  street,  and  its  abode  was  typical  of  its  ambitions 
and  its  means.  Mrs.  Lee  Carter  drew  the  line  clearly 
between  herself  and  her  governess,  which  was  a 
blessing,  for  it  meant  Eileen's  total  exclusion  from 
her  social  life,  and  Eileen's  consequent  enjoyment  of 
her  own  evenings  at  home  or  abroad,  as  she  wished. 
This  unusual  freedom  compensated  for  the  hard 
work  of  teaching  children  in  various  stages  of 
growth  and  ignorance  how  to  talk  French  and  play 
the  piano.  Her  salary  was  small,  for  Mrs.  Lee 
Carter's  ambition  to  live  beyond  her  neighbours' 
means  was  only  achieved  by  pinching  whomever 
she  could.  She  was  not  bad-hearted  ;  she  simply  could 
not  afford  anything  but  luxuries.  Eileen  wondered  at 
not  being  asked  sometimes  to  perform  at  her  parties, 
till  she  found  that  only  celebrities  ever  did  anything 
in  that  house. 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  505 

This  was  a  period  of  much  mental  activity  in 
Eileen's  life.  The  tossing  ocean  of  London  life,  the 
theatres  that  played  Shakespeare,  the  world  of  new 
books  and  new  thought,  her  recent  perusal  of  Plato 
and  of  man,  all  produced  fermentation.  But  every 
night  she  knelt  by  her  bedside  and  said  her  "  Ave 
Maria  "  with  a  voluptuous  sense  of  spiritual  peace, 
and  every  morning  she  woke  with  a  certain  joy  in 
existence  and  a  certain  surprise  to  find  herself  again 
existing.  Her  old  convent-thought  recurred.  "  We 
are  worked  from  without  —  marionettes  who  can 
watch  their  own  performance.  And  it  is  very  amus- 
ing." Once  she  read  of  a  British  action  in  Afghan- 
istan against  border-tribes,  and  she  wondered  if 
Lieutenant  Doherty  was  in  the  fighting.  Since  she 
had  ceased  to  be  his  mother-confessor  he  had  become 
very  shadowy ;  his  image  now  rose  substantial  from 
the  newspaper  lines,  and  she  was  surprised  to  find 
in  herself  a  little  palpitation  at  his  probable  perils. 
"One's  heartstrings,  too,  are  pulled,"  she  thought. 
"  I  don't  like  it.  Marionettes  should  move,  not  feel." 
These  reflections,  however,  came  to  her  more  often 
anent  her  family,  and  the  struggles  of  her  kin  for  a 
livelihood  touched  her  more  deeply  than  any  love. 
"  We  are  like  bits  of  the  same  shattered  body,"  she 
thought.  "  In  these  cold  English  families  everybody 
is  another  body."  She  sent  most  of  her  salary  to 
Ireland,  and  her  pocket-money  came  from  singing 
in  the  choir  on  Sunday. 


506  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

The  bass  chorister  was  a  very  amusing  man.  His 
voice  was  sepulchral  but  his  conversation  skittish. 
Eileen's  repartees  smote  him  to  almost  the  only  serious 
respect  of  his  life,  and  one  day  he  said  :  "  Why,  there's 
a  future  in  you.     Why  don't  you  go  on  the  stage  ?  " 

"  What  nonsense  !  "  But  the  blood  was  secretly 
stirred  in  her  veins.  She  saw  herself  walking  along 
the  Black  Hole  with  the  programme-girl,  but  her 
point  of  view  had  been  modified  since  she  had  re- 
ceived a  similar  suggestion  with  a  shudder.  If  she 
could  play  Rosalind  to  a  great  London  audience,  the 
staring  men-folk  would  matter  little. 

"Why  not?"  went  on  the  bass  tempter.  "A  hu- 
mour like  yours  with  such  a  voice  and  such  a  face !  " 

"  The  stage  is  full  of  better  voices  and  better 
faces." 

"  No,  indeed.  Why,  there  isn't  a  girl  at  the  Half- 
and-Half  —  "     He  stopped  and  almost  blushed. 

She  smiled.  "  Oh,  I  don't  mind  your  going  to 
such  places.  What  is  the  Half-and-Half,  a  place 
where  they  drink  beer?" 

"Oh,  it's  just  our  slang  name  for  a  little  music-hall 
that's  just  between  the  East  End  and  the  West  End, 
with  a  corresponding  programme." 

"  Our  slang  name  ?  " 

"Well  —  "he  paused.  "If  you'll  keep  it  very 
dark  —  but  of  course  you  will  —  I  appear  there 
myself." 

"You!     What  do  you  do?" 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  507 

"  I  sing  patriotic  songs  and  drinking-songs  —  " 

"  Aren't  they  the  same  thing  in  England  ? " 

"  Don't  say  that  on  the  stage  or  they'll  throw  pew- 
ter pots.     They're  very  patriotic." 

"  That's  just  what  I  said.  What's  your  name  —  I 
suppose  you  change  it  ?  " 

"Yes  —  as  I  hope  you  will  yours  —  some  day." 

"  I  shan't  take  yours." 

"Nobody  arxed  you,  miss,"  he  said.  "  And,  be- 
sides, mine  is  copyright  —  Jolly  Jack  Jenkins.  I 
make  a  fiver  a  week  by  it." 

"  A  fiver  !  "  The  bass  chorister  suddenly  took  on 
an  air  of  Arabian  nights.  At  this  rate  she  could  buy 
back  the  family  castle.  Her  struggling  brothers  — 
how  they  would  bless  their  magician  sister — Mick 
should  have  a  London  practice,  Miles  a  partnership 
in  an  engineering  firm. 

"  You  come  with  me  and  see  Fossy,"  continued 
Jolly  Jack  Jenkins. 

Eileen  declined  with  thanks.  It  took  a  week  of 
Sundays  to  argue  away  her  objections  —  religious, 
moral,  and  social.  To  play  Rosalind  to  fashionable 
London  was  one  thing :  to  appear  at  a  variety  thea- 
tre or  low-class  music-hall,  which  nobody  in  her 
world  or  Mrs.  Lee  Carter's  had  ever  heard  of,  was 
another  pair  of  shoes.  Yet  strange  to  say,  it  was  the 
last  consideration  that  decided  her  to  try.  Even  if 
admitted  to  the  boards,  she  could  make  her  failure 
in  secure  obscurity.     It  would  simply  be  another  girl- 


508  THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVEKXESS 

ish  escapade,  and  she  was  ripe  for  mischief  after  her 
long  sobriety. 

"  But  even  your  Mr.  Fossy  mustn't  know  my  real 
name  or  address,"  she  stipulated. 

"  Who  shall  I  say  you  are  ?  " 

"Nelly  O'Neill." 

"  Ripping.     Flows  from  the  tongue  like  music." 

"Then  it's  rippling  you  mean." 

"  What  a  tongue  !     Wait  till  Fossy  sees  you." 

"Will  he  ask  me  to  stick  it  out? " 

"Oh,  Lord,  I  wish  I  had  your  repartee.  But  I'm 
thinking  —  Nelly  O'Neill  —  doesn't  it  give  you  away 
a  bit?" 

"  Keeps  me  a  bit,  too.  I  shouldn't  like  to  lose  my- 
self altogether  —  gain  reputation  for  another  woman." 

Fossy  proved  to  be  a  gentleman  named  Josephs, 
who  in  a  tiny  triangular  room  near  the  stage  of  the 
Half-and-Half  listened  critically  to  her  comic  singing, 
shook  his  head  and  said  he  would  let  her  know. 
Eileen  left  the  room  with  leaden  heart  and  feet. 

"  Wait  for  me  a  moment,  please,"  Jolly  Jack 
Jenkins  called  after  her,  and  she  hung  about  timidly, 
jostled  by  dirty  attendants  and  painted  performers. 
She  was  reading  a  warning  to  artistes  that  any  im- 
proper songs  or  lines  would  lead  to  their  instant 
dismissal,  and  regretting  more  than  ever  her  incom- 
petence for  this  innocent  profession,  when  she  heard 
the  bass  chorister's  big  breathing  behind  her. 

"  Bravo  !     You  knocked  him  all  of  a  heap." 


THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS  509 

"  Rubbish  !     Don't  try  to  cheer  me." 

"  You  !  "  Jolly  Jack  Jenkins  opened  his  eyes. 
"You  taken  in  by  Fossy !  He'll  suggest  your  doing 
a  trial  turn  next  Saturday  night  when  the  public  are 
least  critical,  you'll  make  a  furore,  and  he'll  offer  you 
two  guineas  a  week." 

"A  pleasing  picture,  but  quite  visionary.  Why, 
he    didn't   even    ask   for   an    address    to  write  to  ! " 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  he  thought  care  of  me  would  find 
you.  No,  don't  glower  at  me  —  I  don't  mean  any- 
thing wrong." 

"  I  hope  you  didn't  let  him  misunderstand  —  " 

"  You  asked  me  not  to  let  him  know  too  much. 
Fossy  has  to  do  so  much  with  queer   folk — " 

"  Yes,  I  saw  he  had  to  warn  them  against  im- 
proper songs." 

Jolly  Jack  Jenkins  exploded  in  a  guffaw. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  came,"  said  Eileen,  in  vague  distress. 

"  Fossy  isn't,"  he  retorted.  "  He  was  clean  bowled 
over.  In  that  Irish  fox-hunting  song  all  the  gallery 
will  be  shouting  '  Tally-ho  !  '  Where  did  you  pick 
it  up  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  pick  it  up,  I  made  it  up  for  the  occasion." 

"  By  Jove  !  I  have  to  pay  a  guinea  to  a  bloodsuck- 
ing composer  when  /  want  a  song.  Oh,  Fossy's 
spotted  a  winner  this  time." 

"  Why  is  he  called  Fossy  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Nobody .  knows.  I  found  the 
name,  I  pass  it  on." 


510  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

"  Perhaps  it's  a  corruption  of  Foxy." 

"There!    I  never  thought  of  that !    YowarcA. — !" 

The  jolly  chorister's  mouth  remained  open.     But 

the  prophecy  that  had  already  issued  from  it  came 

true  in  every  detail. 

XIII 

Despite  her  private  stage-fright,  Nelly  O'Neill, 
the  new  serio-comic,  made  a  big  hit.  Her  innocent 
roguery  was  captivating ;  her  virginal  freshness 
floated  over  the  footlights,  like  a  spring  breeze 
through  the  smoky  Hall. 

"Well,  you  are  an  all-round  success,"  cried  Jolly 
Jack  Jenkins,  pumping  her  hand  off  at  the  wings, 
amid  a  thunder  of   applause,  encores,  and  whistles.' 

"You  mean  a  Half-and-Half ! "  laughed  Nelly 
through  Eileen's  tears.  She  had  given  herself  to 
the  audience,  but  how  it  had  given  itself  in  return, 
flashing  back  to  her  in  electric  waves  its  monstrous 
vitality,  its  apparently  single  life. 

The  Half-and-Half  was  one  of  those  early  Victorian 
halls  of  the  people,  with  fixed  stars  and  only  a  few 
meteors.  The  popular  favourites  changed  their 
songs  and  their  clothes  at  periodic  intervals,  but 
they  would  have  lost  favour  if  they  had  not  re- 
mained the  same  throughout  everything.  A  chair- 
man with  a  hammer  announced  the  turns,  and 
condescendingly  took  champagne  with  anybody  who 
paid    for   it.     Eileen  soon  became  an  indispensable 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  511 

part  of  this  smoky  world.  She  signed  an  agree- 
ment at  three  guineas  a  week  for  three  years,  to 
perform  only  at  the  Half-and-Half.  Fossy  saw  far. 
Eileen  did  not.  She  jumped  for  joy  when  she  got 
beyond  eyeshot.  She  felt  herself  jumping  out  of 
the  governess-life.  Second  thoughts  and  soberer 
footsteps  brought  doubt.  She  had  intended  telling 
Mrs.  Lee  Carter  as  soon  as  the  trial-performance 
was  over,  but  now  she  hesitated  and  was  lost.  Half 
the  charm  lay  in  the  secret  adventure,  the  dare- 
devilry.  Besides,  as  a  governess  she  had  a  comfort- 
able home  and  a  respectable  status,  and  she  had 
already  seen  and  divined  enough  of  the  world  behind 
the  footlights  to  shrink  from  being  absorbed  into  it. 
What  fun  in  the  double  life !  She  had  never  found 
a  single  life  worth  living.  She  would  belong  to  two 
worlds  — be  literally  Half-and-Half.  Nelly  O'Neill 
must  only  be  born  at  twilight.  But  she  felt  she 
could  not  be  out  uniformly  every  evening  without 
some  explanation. 

"Mrs.  Lee  Carter,"  she  said,  "  I  have  to  tell  you 
of  a  peculiar  chance  of  augmenting  my  income  that 
has  come  to  me." 

Mrs.  Lee  Carter,  wearing  plumes  and  train  for  a 
court  reception,  paled.  "  You  are  not  going  to  leave 
me!" 

The  nai've  exclamation  strengthened  Eileen's  hand. 

"  I  don't  quite  see  how  to  do  otherwise,"  she  said 
boldly. 


512  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

"  Oh,  dear,  I  wish  I  could  afford  more.  I  know 
you're  worth  it." 

Eileen  thought,  "  If  you'd  only  give  your  guests 
good  claret  instead  of  bad  champagne !  "  But  she 
said,  "  You  are  very  kind  —  you  have  always  been 
most  considerate." 

The  plumes  wagged. 

"  I  try  to  please  all  parties." 

Nelly  O'Neill  thought,  "And  to  give  too  many." 
Eileen  said,  "  Yes,  you've  given  me  my  evenings  to 
myself  as  it  is,  and  considering  the  new  work  is  only 
in  the  evenings,  I  did  think  of  running  the  two,  but 
I'm  afraid  —  " 

"  If  we  lightened  your  work  a  little —  "  interrupted 
Mrs.  Lee  Carter,  eagerly. 

"  I  shouldn't  so  much  ask  that  as  to  have  perfect 
freedom  like  a  young  man  —  a  latchkey  even." 
Never  had  Eileen  looked  more  demure  and  Puritan. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  you  won't  be  working  too  late  - —  " 

"  The  people  who  go  there  are  engaged  in  the  day- 
time. I'd  better  be  frank  with  you  ;  it's  an  extremely 
unfashionable  place  towards  the  East  End,  and  I  quite 
understand  you  may  not  like  me  to  take  it.  At  the 
same  time  I  shall  never  meet  anybody  who  knows 
me.     In  fact,  it's  a  dancing  and  singing  place." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Mrs.  Lee  Carter,  blankly.  "  I  didn't 
know  you  could  teach  dancing,  too." 

"You  never  asked  me.  ...  Of  course,  if  you 
prefer  it,  I  could  come  here  as  a  clay  governess  and 


THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS  513 

leave  after  tea.   .  .  .     You  see  it's  a  longish  journey 
home  :  I'm  bound  to  be  late.  .  .  ." 

"What's  the  difference?  Come  and  go  as  you 
please.  ...  Of  course,  you  won't  mind  using  the 
back  door   when   there's   a   party  .   .   .  the    servants 

For  the  deception  Eileen  at  first  salved  her  con- 
science Irish-wise  by  sending  every  farthing  to  her 
mother  under  the  deceiving  pretext  of  rich  private 
pupils.  She  would  not  even  deduct  for  cabs.  Some- 
times she  could  not  get  an  omnibus,  but  she  almost 
preferred  to  walk  till  she  was  footsore,  for  both  rid- 
ing and  walking  were  forms  of  penance.  The  stuffy 
omnibus  interior  after  the  smoky  Hall  was  nauseating, 
and  in  those  days  no  lady  thought  of  climbing  the 
steep  ladder  to  the  slanting  roof.  But  it  sometimes 
happened  that  a  crawling  cabman  coming  westward 
would  invite  her  to  a  free  ride,  and  Eileen  would 
accept  gratefully,  and,  moreover,  gain  from  conversa- 
tions with  her  drivers  new  material  for  her  songs. 

This  period  of  her  life  was  almost  as  amusing  as 
she  had  anticipated ;  her  only  depressions  came  from 
the  children  of  the  footlights,  and  the  necessity  of 
adjusting  herself  superficially  to  her  environment, 
under  pain  of  unpopularity.  Her  isolation  and  the 
privacy  of  her  home-life  already  made  sufficiently 
for  that.  And  to  be  disliked  even  by  those  she  dis- 
liked Eileen  disliked.  Her  nature  needed  to  wallow 
in  warm  admiration.     She  got  plenty. 


514  THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS 

When,  fifteen  months  later,  she  agreed  to  pay 
Fossy  a  hundred  pounds  for  modifying  her  contract 
so  as  to  enable  her  to  appear  at  other  Halls,  she  said 
with  a  smile,  "You  deserve  it.  You  are  the  only 
man  at  the  Half-and-Half  who  hasn't  made  love 
to  me." 

Fossy  grinned.  "  If  I  had  known  that,  I  should 
have  demanded  a  larger  compensation." 

Even  the  bass  chorister  had  not  been  able  to  resist 
proposing,  though  his  grief  at  being  refused  was 
short-lived,  for  he  died  soon  after  by  a  fall  from  one 
of  those  giant  wheels  that  were  the  saurians  of  the 
modern  cycle.  Eileen  shed  many  a  tear  over  Jolly 
Jack  Jenkins. 

With  the  growth  of  her  popularity  before  and 
behind  the  footlights  came  heavier  calls  upon  her 
geniality,  and,  like  a  hostess  who  tries  to  pay  off  her 
debts  in  one  social  lump  sum,  Eileen  got  "  a  Sunday 
out,"  and  Nelly  gave  a  lunch  at  a  riverside  hotel  to 
a  motley  company  of  popular  favourites.  It  was 
expensive;  for  the  profession,  even  in  those  days, 
expected  champagne.  It  was  appallingly  protracted; 
for  the  party,  having  no  work  to  do  that  evening, 
showed  no  disposition  to  break  up,  and  brandies-and- 
sodas  succeeded  one  another  in  an  aroma  of  masculine 
cigars  and  feminine  cigarettes.  It  was  noisy  and 
hilarious,  and  gradually  it  became  rowdy.  The  Sing- 
ing Sisters  sang,  but  not  in  duet.  The  Lion  Comique, 
whose    loyal    melodies  were   on  every  barrel-organ, 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  515 

argued  Republicanism  and  flourished  that  day's  copy 
of  Reynolds's  Newspaper.  The  beauteous  Bessie  Bil- 
hook  —  "the  Queen  of  Serio-Comics  "  was  scandal- 
ously autobiographic,  and  the  old  plantation  songster 
—  looking  unreal  with  his  washed  face  —  was  with 
difficulty  dissuaded  from  displaying  his  ability  to 
dance  on  the  table  without  smashing  anything.  The 
climax  was  reserved  for  the  demure  one-legged  gym- 
nast, who  suddenly  produced  a  pistol  and  discharged 
it  in  the  air.  When  the  panic  subsided,  he  explained 
to  the  landlord  and  the  company  that  he  was  "paying 
his  shot." 

"  That's  a  hint  for  me  to  discharge  the  bill,"  said 
Nelly,  adroitly,  and,  thanking  everybody  effusively 
for  the  happiness  afforded  her,  she  hurried  home  to 
Oxbridge  Terrace,  to  wash  it  all  away  in  nursery  tea. 
The  young  Lee  Carters  made  a  restful  spectacle  with 
their  shining  innocent  faces,  and  she  almost  wished 
they  would  never  grow  up. 

As  her  success  grew,  offers  from  the  pantomimes 
and  even  the  legitimate  stage  began  to  reach  her. 
But  now  she  would  not  make  the  step.  At  the 
Halls  she  was  her  own  mistress,  able  to  arrange  at 
her  own  convenience  with  orchestras.  Even  Rosa- 
lind would  have  meant  long  rehearsals  and  a  com- 
plex interference  with  her  governess-life. 

At  the  theatres,  too,  to  judge  by  all  she  heard,  a 
sordid  side  of  the  profession  was  accentuated.  The 
players  played  for  their  own   hands,  and   even   the 


516  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

greatest  did  not  disdain  to  "queer"  the  effects  of 
their  subordinates,  whenever  such  effects  did  not 
heighten  their  own.  Hamlet  had  been  known  to  be 
jealous  of  the  ghost,  and  the  success  of  his  sepul- 
chral bass.  It  was  in  fact  a  world  of  jostling  jeal- 
ousies, as  hidden  from  the  public  as  the  prompter. 
In  the  Halls  she  was  her  own  company  and  her 
own  playwright  and  her  own  composer.  She  had 
her  elbows  free. 

And  even  here  Bessie  Bilhook,  whose  vanity  was 
a  byword  in  Lower  Bohemia,  and  who  had  arro- 
gantly assumed  the  sovereignty  of  the  Serio-Comics, 
refused  to  appear  on  the  same  programmes  unless 
her  name  was  printed  twice  as  large  as  Nelly 
O'Neill's,  and  was  further  displayed  on  a  board 
outside,  alone  in  its  nine-inch  glory.  Again,  actresses 
were  recognised  by  the  newspapers ;  the  Halls  had 
as  yet  no  status.  Their  performers  were  not  so 
photographed ;  indeed,  Eileen  refused  to  sit.  She 
desired  this  obscurer  form  of  celebrity.  If  her  fame 
should  ever  reach  Mrs.  Lee  Carter,  the  game  would 
be  nearly  up.  Her  poor  mother  might  even  suffer 
the  shock  of  it ;  perhaps  the  professional  future  of 
her  brothers  would  be  injured.  Her  sedate  life  had 
grown  as  dear  as  her  noisy  life,  she  loved  the  tran- 
sition to  the  innocent  home  circle. 

Yet  in  this  very  domesticity  lay  a  danger.  It  pro- 
voked her  to  an  ever  broader  humour  on  the  stage. 
She  let  herself  go,  like  a  swimmer   emboldened  by 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  517 

a  boat  behind.  Eileen  O'Keeffe  she  felt  would 
rescue  Nelly  O'Neill  if  licence  carried  her  too  near 
the  falls.  It  was  so  irresistibly  seductive,  this  swift 
response  of  the  audience  to  the  wink  of  suggestion. 
Like  a  vast  lyre,  the  Hall  vibrated  to  the  faintest 
breath  of  roguishness.  Almost  in  contemptuous 
mockery  one  was  tempted  to  experiment.  .  .  . 

One  clay,  in  a  sudden  horror  of  herself,  she  pleaded 
illness  and  hurried  back  to  her  mother  for  a  holiday. 

XIV 

The  straggling  village  looked  much  the  same,  the 
same  pigs  and  turkeys  rooted  and  strutted,  the  same 
stinging  turf-smoke  came  from  the  doors  and  win- 
dows (save  from  one  or  two  cabins  unroofed  by  the 
Castle  tyrant),  the  same  weeds  grew  in  the  potato- 
patches,  the  same  old  men  in  patched  brogues  pulled 
their  caubeens  from  their  heads  and  their  dudeens 
from  their  mouths,  as  she  went  past,  half-consciously 
studying  the  humours  for  stage  reproduction.  It 
was  hard  for  her  to  remember  she  wasn't  "the 
Quality "  in  London,  or  that  the  Half-and-Half 
existed  simultaneously  with  these  beloved  woods 
and  waters.  In  only  one  particular  was  the  village 
changed.  Golf  links  had  been  discovered  near  it, 
a  club-house  had  sprung  up  and  the  peasants  found 
themselves  enriched  by  the  employment  of  their 
gossoons  as  caddies.  The  O'Keeffes  were  prosper- 
ing   equally  —  thanks    to    her    subsidies  —  although 


518  THE  SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

she  hadn't  yet  bought  them  back  their  castle. 
"All's  for  the  best  in  the  greenest  of  isles,"  she 
told  herself,  as  she  sat  basking  in  family  affection. 

And  yet  the  wave  of  melancholia  refused  to  ebb. 
Indeed,  it  swelled  and  grew  blacker.  The  remedy 
seemed  to  intensify  the  disease ;  a  holiday  but  gave 
her  time  to  possess  her  soul,  and  brood  upon  its 
stains,  her  childhood's  scene  but  enabled  her  to 
measure  the  realities  of  her  achievement  against  the 
visions  of  girlhood.  Life  seemed  too  hopeless,  too 
absurd.  To  amuse  the  gross  adult,  to  instruct  the 
innocent  child  —  what  did  it  all  mean  to  her  own 
life  ?  She  was  tired  of  doing,  she  wanted  to  be  some- 
thing ;  something  for  herself.  She  was  always  ob- 
serving, imitating,  caricaturing,  but  what  was  she  ? 
A  nothing,  a  phantasm,  an  emptiness. 

"  Eileen  avourneen,"  said  her  mother,  suddenly. 
"  I  wish  you  were  married." 

Eileen  opened  her  eyes.  "  Dear  heart,  is  this 
another  offer  from  the  castle  ?  "  And  she  laughed 
gently. 

Mrs.  O'Keeffe's  fingers  played  uneasily  with  her 
bosom's  cross.  "  No,  but  I  should  feel  happier  about 
you.     It  —  it  settles  people." 

"  It  certainly  does,"  Eileen  laughed,  and  her  cele- 
brated ditty,  "  The  Marriage  Settlement,"  flashed 
upon  her.  "  Oh,  dear,"  and  her  laugh  changed  to 
a  sigh.     "The  marriages   I  see  around  me!" 

"  What !     Isn't  Mrs.  Lee  Carter  happy  ?  " 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  519 

Eileen  flushed.  ."  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  in  her 
shoes,"  she  said  evasively. 

"Officers  seem  to  make  the  best  husbands,"  said 
Mrs.  O'Keeffe. 

"  Because  they  are  so  much  away  ?  "  queried  Eileen, 
with  a  vague  memory  of  her  Lieutenant  Doherty. 

That  night  the  melancholia  was  heavy  as  a  night- 
mare, without  the  partial  unconsciousness  of  sleep. 
This  blackness  must  be  "  the  horrors  "  she  had  heard 
women  of  her  stage-world  speak  of.  She  wanted  to 
spring  out  of  bed,  to  run  to  her  mother's  room.  But 
that  would  have  meant  hysteric  confession,  so  she 
bit  her  lips  and  stuck  her  nails  into  the  sheet.  Per- 
haps suicide  would  be  simplest.  She  was  nothing  ;  it 
would  not  even  be  blowing  out  a  light.  No,  she  ivas 
something,  she  was  a  retailer  of  gross  humours,  a 
vile  sinner ;  it  might  be  kindling  more  than  a  light, 
an  eternal  flame.  "  Child  of  Mary,"  indeed  !  She 
deserved  to  be  strangled  with  her  white  ribbon.  And 
she  exaggerated  everything  with  that  morbid  mendac- 
ity of  the  confessional. 

Two  days  later  she  went  for  a  walk  along  the 
springy  turf  of  the  valley.  The  sun  shone  overhead, 
but  from  her  spirit  the  mist  had  not  quite  lifted. 
Suddenly  a  small  white  ball  came  scudding  towards 
her  feet.  She  looked  round  and  saw  herself  amid 
little  flags  sticking  in  the  ground.  Distant  voices 
came  to  her  ear. 

"  This  must  be  the  new  game  that's  creeping  in  from 


520  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

Scotland,"  she  thought.  "  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have 
a  song  ready  if  ever  it  catches  on.  Ah,  here  comes 
one  of  the  young  fools  —  I'll  watch  him  —  " 

He  came,  clothed  as  in  a  grey  skin  that  showed 
the  beautiful  modelling  of  his  limbs.  His  face 
glowed. 

"  Ouida's  Apollo,"  she  thought,  but  in  the  very 
mockery  she  trembled,  struck  as  by  a  lightning  shaft. 
The  blackness  was  sucked  up  into  fire  and  light. 
"  Am  I  in  the  way  ?  "  she  said  with  her  most  bewitch- 
ing smile. 

He  raised  his  hat.  "  I  was  afraid  you  might  have 
been  struck." 

"  Perhaps  I  was,"  she  could  not  help  saying. 

"Oh,  gracious,  are  you  hurt?"  His  voice  was 
instantly  caressing. 

"  Do  I  loo-k  an  object  for  ambulances  ?  " 

He  smiled  dazzlingly.  "You  look  awfully  jolly." 
Later  Eileen  remembered  how  she  had  taken  this 
reply  for  a  line  of  poetry. 

A  week  later  the  Hon.  Reginald  Winsor,  younger 
brother  of  an  English  Earl,  was  teaching  Eileen  golf. 

It  had  been  a  week  of  ecstasy. 

She  thought  of  Reginald  the  last  thing  at  night  and 
the  first  thing  in  the  morning  and  dreamed  of  him  all 
night. 

Now  she  knew  what  her  life  had  lacked  —  to  be 
caught  up  into  another's  personality,  to  lose  one's 
petty   individuality    in  —  in  what?     Surely  not  in  a 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  621 

larger;  she  couldn't  be  so  blind  as  that.  In  what 
then  ?  Ah,  yes,  in  Nature.  He  was  gloriously 
elemental.  He  wasn't  himself.  He  was  the  mascu- 
line. Yes,  that  was  the  correlative  element  her  being 
needed.  The  mere  manliness  of  his  pipe  made  its 
aroma  in  his  clothes  adorable.  Or  was  it  his  big 
simplicity,  in  which  she  could  bury  all  her  torturing 
complexity  ?  Oh,  to  nestle  in  it  and  be  at  rest.  Yet 
she  held  him  at  arm's  length.  When  they  shook 
hands  her  nerves  thrilled,  but  she  was  the  colder  out- 
wardly for  very  fear  of  herself. 

On  the  ninth  day  he  proposed. 

Eileen  knew  it  would  be  that  day.  Lying  in  bed 
that  morning,  she  found  herself  caught  by  her  old 
impersonal  whimsy.  "  I'm  a  fever,  and  on  the  ninth 
day  of  me  the  man  comes  out  in  a  rash  proposal." 
Ah,  but  this  time  she  was  in  a  tertian,  too.  What  a 
difference  from  those  other  proposals  —  proper  or 
improper.  Her  mind  ran  over  half  a  dozen,  with 
a  touch  of  pity  she  had  not  felt  at  the  time.  Poor 
Bob  Maper,  poor  Jolly  Jack  Jenkins,  if  it  was  like 
this  they  felt !  But  was  it  her  fault  ?  No  man  could 
say  she  had  led  him  on  —  except,  perhaps,  the  Hon. 
Reginald,  and  towards  him  her  intentions  were  hon- 
ourable, she  told  herself  smiling.  But  the  jest  car- 
ried itself  farther  and  more  stingingly.  Could  he 
make  an  "honourable"  woman  of  her?  Ah,  God, 
was  she  worthy  of  him,  of  his  simple  manhood  ? 
And  would  he  continue   proposing,  if  she  told  him 


522  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

she  was  Nelly  O'Neill?  And  what  of  his  noble  rela- 
tives ?  No,  no,  she  must  not  run  risks.  She  was 
only  Eileen  O'Keeffe,  she  had  never  left  Ireland 
save  for  the  Convent.  The  rest  was  a  nightmare. 
How  glad  she  was  that  nobody  knew  ! 

The  proposal  duly  took  place  in  a  bunker,  while 
Eileen  was  whimsically  vituperating  her  ball.  The 
fascination  of  her  virginal  diablei'ie  was  like  a  force 
compelling  the  victim  to  seize  her  in  his  arms  after 
the  fashion  of  the  primitive  bridegroom.  However 
the  poor  Honourable  refrained,  said  boldly,  "  Try  it 
with  this,"  and  under  pretence  of  changing  her  golf- 
sticks  possessed  himself  of  her  hand.  For  the  first 
time  his  touch  left  her  apathetic. 

"  Now  it  is  coming,"  she  thought,  and  suddenly 
froze  to  a  spectator  of  the  marionette  show.  As  the 
Hon.  Reginald  went  through  his  performance,  she 
felt  with  a  shudder  of  horror  over  what  brink  she 
had  nearly  stepped.  The  man  was  merely  a  mag- 
nificent animal !  She,  with  her  heart,  her  soul,  her 
brain,  mated  to  that!  Like  a  convict  chained  to  a 
log.  Not  worthy  of  him  forsooth  !  "  There's  a  gulf 
between  us,"  she  thought,  "and  I  nearly  fell  down 
it."  And  the  Half-and-Half  rose  before  her,  clam- 
ouring, pungent,  deliciously  seductive. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Winsor,"  she  listened  with  no  less 
interest  to  her  own  part  in  the  marionette  perform- 
ance, "it's  really  too  bad  of  you.  Just  as  I  was  get- 
ting on  so  nicely,  too  !  " 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  523 

"Is  that  all  you  feel  about  —  about  our  friend- 
ship?" 

.  "All?  Didn't  you  undertake  to  teach  me  golf? 
I  haven't  the  faintest  desire  not  to  go  on  .  .  .  as 
soon  as  we  have  escaped  from  this  wretched  bunker. 
Come  !     Did  you  say  the  niblick  ?  " 

Reginald's  manners  were  too  good  to  permit  him 
to  swear,  even  at  golf. 

"One's  body  is  like  an  Irish  mud-cabin,"  Eileen 
reflected.     "  It  shelters  both  a  soul  and  a  pig." 

XV 

Nelly  O'Neill  threw  herself  into  her  work  with 
greater  ardour  than  ever.  But  her  triumphs  were 
shadowed  by  worries.  She  was  nervous  lest  the 
Hon.  Reginald  should  turn  up  at  one  of  her  Halls 
—  she  had  three  now ;  she  was  afraid  her  voice 
was  spoiling  in  the  smoky  atmosphere ;  sometimes 
the  image  of  the  Hon.  Reginald  came  back  re- 
proachfully, sometimes  tantalisingly.  Oh,  why  was 
he  so  stupid  ?     Or  was  it  she  who  had  been  stupid  ? 

Then  there  was  the  apprehension  of  the  end  of  her 
career  at  the  Lee  Carters'.  The  young  generation 
was  nearly  grown  up.  The  eldest  boy  she  even  sus- 
pected of  music-halls.     He  might  stumble  upon  her. 

Her  popularity,  too,  was  beginning  to  frighten 
her.  Adventurous  young  gentlemen  followed  her 
in  cabs  —  cabs  were  now  a  necessity  of  her  triple 
appearance  —  and   she   never   dared   drive    quite   to 


524  THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS 

her  door  or  even  the  street.  Bracelets  she  always 
returned,  if  the  address  was  given  ;  flowers  she  sent 
to  hospitals,  anonymous  gifts  to  her  family.  Nobody 
ever  saw  her  wearing  his  badge. 

A  sketch  of  her  even  found  its  way  to  one  of  Mrs. 
Lee  Carter's  journals. 

"Why,  she  looks  something  like  me !  '  Eileen  said 
boldly. 

"  You  flatter  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Lee  Carter. 
"  You're  both  Irish,  that's  all.  But  I  don't  see  why 
these  music-hall  minxes  should  be  pictured  in  re- 
spectable household  papers." 

"  Some  people  say  that  the  only  real  talent  is  now 
to  be  found  in  the  Halls,"  said  Eileen. 

"Well,  I  hope  it'll  stay  there,"  rejoined  her  mis- 
tress, tartly.  Eileen  recalled  this  conversation  a  few 
nights  later,  when  she  met  Master  Harold  Lee  Carter 
outside  the  door  at  midnight  with  a  rival  latchkey. 

"Been  to  a  theatre,  Miss  O'Keeffe?"  asked  her 
whilom  pupil. 

"  No;  have  you?" 

"  Well,  not  exactly  a  theatre  !  " 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Sort  of  half-and-half  place,  you  know." 

By  the  icy  chill  at  her  heart  at  his  innocent  phrase, 
she  knew  how  she  dreaded  discovery  and  clung  to 
her  social  status. 

"  What  is  a  half-and-half  place  ? "  she  asked 
smiling. 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  525 

"  Oh,  comic  songs  and  tumblers  and  you  can 
smoke." 

"  No  ?  You're  not  really  allowed  to  smoke  in  a 
theatre  ? " 

"Yes,  we  are.  They  call  it  a  music-hall  —  it's 
great  fun.     But  don't  tell  the  mater." 

"  You  naughty  boy  !  " 

"  I  don't  see  it.     All  the  chaps  go." 

She  shook  her  head.     "  Not  the  nicest." 

"  Oh,  that's  tommy  rot,"  he  said  disrespectfully. 
"Their  women  folk  don't  know  —  that's  all." 

Eileen  now  began  to  feel  like  a  criminal  round 
whom  the  toils  thicken.  In  the  most  fashionable 
of  her  three  Halls,  she  sang  a  little  French  song. 
And  she  had  taught  Master  Harold  his  French. 

Of  course,  even  if  Nelly  were  seen  by  Eileen's 
friends  or  acquaintances,  detection  was  not  sure. 
Eileen  was  always  in  such  sedate  gowns,  never  low- 
cut,  her  manners  were  so  suppressed,  her  hair  done 
so  differently,  and  what  a  difference  hair  made  !  In 
fact,  it  was  in  her  private  life  that  she  felt  herself 
more  truly  the  actress.  On  the  boards  her  real 
secret  self  seemed  to  flash  forth,  full  of  verve,  dash, 
roguery,  devilry.  Should  she  take  to  a  wig,  or  to 
character  songs  in  appropriate  costumes  ?  No,  she 
would  run  the  risk.  It  gave  more  spice  to  life. 
Every  evening  now  was  an  adventure,  nay  three 
adventures,  and  when  she  snuggled  herself  up  at 
midnight  in  her  demure  white  bed,  overlooked  by  the 


526  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

crucifix,  she  felt  like  the  hunted  were-wolf,  safely  back 
in  human  shape.  And  she  became  more  audacious, 
letting  herself  go,  so  as  to  widen  the  chasm  between 
Nelly  and  Eileen,  and  make  anybody  who  should  sus- 
pect her  be  sure  he  was  wrong.  And  occasionally  she 
paid  for  all  this  fever  and  gaiety  by  fits  of  the  blackest 
melancholy.    ' 

She  had  gradually  dropped  her  habit  of  prayer, 
but  in  one  of  her  dark  moods  she  found  herself  slip- 
ping to  her  knees  and  crying :  "  Oh,  Holy  Mother, 
look  down  on  Thy  distressed  daughter,  and  deliver 
her  from  the  body  of  this  death.  So  many  wooers 
and  no  spark  of  love  in  herself ;  a  woman  who  sings 
love-songs  with  lips  no  man  has  touched,  a  lone-of-soul 
who  can  live  neither  with  the  respectable  nor  with  the 
Bohemians,  who  loves  you,  sauctissima  Mariay  without 
being  sure  you  exist.  Oh,  Holy  Mother  of  God,  advo- 
cate of  sinners,  pray  for  me.  If  I  had  only  something 
solid  to  cling  to  —  a  babe  to  suckle  with  its  red  gro- 
tesque little  face.  You  will  say  cling  to  the  cross,  but 
is  not  my  whole  life  also  a  crucifixion  ?  I  am  rent  in 
twain  that  a  thousand  fools  may  laugh  nightly.  Oh, 
Holy  Mother,  make  me  at  one  with  myself ;  it  is  the 
atonement  I  need.  Send  me  the  child's  heart,  and  I 
will  light  a  hundred  candles  to  you.  ...  Or  do  you 
now  prefer  electricity  ?  Oh,  Maria  mavourneen,  I 
cannot  pray  to  you,  for  there  is  a  mocking  devil 
within  me,  and  you  will  not  cast  her  out."  And  she 
burst  into  hysteric  tears. 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  527 

XVI 

As  she  was  about  to  start  one  evening  for  her 
round,  Mrs.  Lee  Carter's  maid  brought  up  a  bomb- 
shell. Superficially  it  looked  like  a  letter  with  for- 
eign stamps,  marked  "  Private  "  and  readdressed  with 
an  English  stamp  from  Ireland.  But  that  one  line  of 
unerased  writing,  her  name,  threw  her  into  heats  and 
colds,  for  she  remembered  the  long-forgotten  hand  of 
Lieutenant  Doherty.  She  had  to  sit  down  on  her 
bed  and  finish  trembling  before  she  broke  the  seal 
and  set  free  this  voice  from  the  past. 

"  Dear  Mother-Confessor,  —  You  will  be  won- 
dering why  I  have  been  silent  all  these  years  and 
why  I  write  now.  Well,  I  will  tell  you  the  truth.  It 
wasn't  that  I  believed  you  had  really  gone  into  the 
Convent  you  wrote  me  you  were  joining,  it  was  the 
the  new  and  exciting  life  and  duties  that  opened  up 
before  me  when  I  got  to  Afghanistan,  far  from  post- 
offices.  Afterwards  I  was  drafted  to  India  and  had  a 
lot  of  skirmishing  and  tiger-shooting,  and  your  image 
—  forgive  me  !  —  became  faint,  and  I  excused  myself 
for  not  writing  by  making  myself  believe  you  were 
buried  in  the  Convent.  ["  So,  after  all,  he  never 
got  the  letter  telling  him  I  was  going  to  marry  back 
the  Castle  !  "  Eileen  mused  joyfully  through  her  agi- 
tation.] But  now  that  I  am  at  last  coming  home  in 
a  few  months,  no  longer  a  minor,  but  nearer  a  major 


528  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

(that's  like  one  of  your  old  jokes)  —  somehow  your 
face  seems  to  be  the  only  thing  I  am  coming 
back  for.  It's  no  use  trying  to  explain  it  all,  or  even 
apologising.  It's  just  like  that.  I've  confessed,  you 
see,  though  it  is  hopeless  to  get  straight  with  my 
arrears,  so  I  won't  attempt  it.  And  when  I  found 
out  how  I  felt,  of  course  came  the  horrible  thought 
that  you  might  be  in  the  Convent  after  all,  or,  worse 
still,  married  and  done  for,  so  what  do  you  think  I 
did  ?  I  just  sent  this  cable  to  your  mother :  '  Is 
Eileen  free  ?  Reply  paid.  Colonel  Doherty.' 
Wasn't  it  clever  and  economical  of  me  to  think  of  the 
word  'free,'  meaning  such  a  lot  —  not  married,  not  a 
nun,  not  even  engaged  to  another  fellow  ?  Imagine 
my  joy  when  I  got  back  the  monosyllable,  meaning 
all  that  lot.  I  instantly  cabled  back  '  Thanks,  don't  tell 
her  of  this.'  ["  So  that's  what  mother  was  hinting 
at,"  thought  Eileen,  with  a  smile.]  It  was  all  I  could 
do  not  to  cable  to  you  :  '  Will  you  marry  me  ?  Reply 
paid.'  ["What  a  good  idea  for  a  song  !  "  murmured 
Nelly.]  Put  me  out  of  my  agony  as  soon  as  you 
can,  won't  you,  dearest  Eileen  ?  Your  face  is  floating 
before  me  as  I  write,  with  its  black  Irish  eyes  and  its 
roguish  dimples.  .  .  ." 

She  could  read  no  more.  She  sat  long  on  her  bed, 
dazed  by  the  rush  of  bitter-sweet  memories.  The 
Convent,  her  father,  her  early  years,  this  clear  boy 
...     all  was  washed  together  in  tears.      There  was 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  529 

something  so  bizarre,  unexpected  and  ingenuous 
about  it  all ;  it  touched  the  elemental  in  her.  If  he 
had  excused  himself  even,  she  would  have  tossed  him 
off  impatiently.  But  his  frank  exposure  of  his  own 
self-contradictoriness  appealed  subtly  to  her.  Was 
this  the  want  in  her  life,  was  it  for  him  she  had  been 
yearning,  below  the  surface  of  her  consciousness, 
even  as  she  had  remained  below  the  surface  of  his  ? 
Here,  indeed,  was  salvation  —  providential  salvation. 
A  hand  was  stretched  to  save  her — snatch  her  from 
spiritual  destruction.  The  dear  brown  manly  hand 
that  had  potted  tigers  while  she  had  been  gesticulat- 
ing on  platforms  —  a  performing  lioness.  Distance, 
imagination,  early  memories,  united  to  weave  a  gla- 
mour round  him.  It  was  many  minutes  before  she 
could  read  the  postscript :  "  I  think  it  right  to  say 
that  my  complexion  is  not  yellow  nor  my  liver  de- 
stroyed. I  know  this  is  how  we  are  represented  on 
your  stage.  I  have  sat  for  a  photograph,  especially 
to  send  you." 

The  stage  !  Why  should  he  just  stumble  upon  the 
word,  to  chill  her  with  the  awful  question  whether 
she  would  have  to  tell  him.  She  was  late  at  her 
engagements,  her  performance  was  perfunctory  — 
she  was  no  longer  with  "  the  boys,"  but  seated  in  a 
howdah  on  an  elephant's  back,  side  by  side  with 
a  mighty  hunter,  or  walking  with  a  tall  flaxen-haired 
lieutenant  between  the  honeysuckled  hedges  of  an 
Irish  boreen.     It  struck  her  as  almost  miraculous  — 


530  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

though  it  was  probably  only  because  her  attention 
was  now  drawn  to  the  name  —  that  she  read  of 
Colonel  Doherty  in  the  evening  paper  the  gasman 
tendered  her  that  very  evening,  as  she  waited  at  the 
wing.  It  was  a  little  biography  full  of  deeds  of  der- 
ringdo.  "  My  Bayard  !  "  she  murmured,  and  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

She  wrote  and  tore  up  many  replies.  The  first 
commenced :  "  What  a  strange  way  of  proposing ! 
You  begin  by  giving  me  two  black  eyes  to  prove 
you've  forgotten  me.  I  am  so  different  in  other 
people's  eyes  as  well  as  in  my  own  it  would  be  un- 
fair to  accept  you.  You  are  in  love  with  a  shadow." 
The  word-play  about  her  eyes  seemed  to  savour  of 
the  "  Half-and-Half."  She  struck  it  out.  But  "you 
are  in  love  with  a  shadow,"  remained  the  Leit-motif 
of  all  the  letters.  And  if  he  was  grasping  at  a 
shadow  it  would  be  unfair  for  her  to  grasp  at  the 
substance. 

The  correspondence  continued  by  every  Indian 
mail  after  his  receipt  of  her  guarded  refusal;  he 
Quixotic,  devoted,  no  matter  how  she  had  changed. 
He  loved  the  mere  scent  of  her  letter  paper.  Was 
she  only  a  governess  ?  Had  she  been  a  charwoman, 
he  would  have  kissed  her  cheeks  white.  The  boyish 
extravagance  of  his  passion  worked  upon  her,  troub- 
ling her  to  her  sincerest  core.  She  would  hide 
nothing  from  him.  She  wrote  a  full  account  of  her 
stage  career,  morbidly  exaggerating  the  vulgarity  of 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  531 

her  performance  and  the  degradation  of  her  char- 
acter. She  was  blacker  than  any  charwoman,  she  said 
with  grim  humour.  The  moment  she  dropped  the 
letter  into  the  box,  a  trembling  seized  on  all  her  limbs. 
She  spent  three  days  of  torture  ;  her  fear  of  losing  him 
seeming  to  have  heightened  her  love  for  him. 

Then  Mrs.  Lee  Carter  handed  her  a  cable. 

"Sailing  unexpectedly  S.S.  Colombo  to-morrow  — 
Doherty."  She  nearly  fell  fainting  in  dual  joy.  He 
was  coming  home,  and  he  would  cross  her  letter. 
Before  it  could  return  they  would  be  safely  married. 
It  should  be  destroyed  unread. 

"  Is  anything  wrong  ?  "  said  her  mistress. 

"  No,  quite  the  contrary." 

"  I  am  glad,  because  I  had  rather  unpleasant  news 
to  tell  you.  But  you  must  have  seen  that  when  Ken- 
neth goes  to  Winchester,  there  will  practically  be 
nothing  for  you  to  do." 

"  How  lucky  !     For  I  am  going  to  be  married." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  so  glad,"  gushed  Mrs.  Lee 
Carter. 

Afterwards  Eileen  marvelled  at  the  obvious  finger 
of  Providence  unravelling  her  problems.  She  had 
never  relished  the  idea  of  finding  another  place,  not 
easily  would  she  find  one  so  dovetailing  into  her  sec- 
ond life ;  she  might  have  been  tempted  to  burn  her 
boats. 

She  prepared  now  to  burn  her  ships  instead.  Her 
contracts  with  the   Halls  were  now  only  monthly ; 


532  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

Nelly  O'Neill  could  easily  slip  out  of  existence.  She 
would  not  say  she  was  going  to  be  married  —  that 
would  concentrate  attention  on  herself.  Illness 
seemed  the  best  excuse.  For  the  one  week  after  the 
Colombo's  arrival  she  could  send  conscience  money. 
The  Saturday  it  was  due  found  her  still  starred ;  she 
did  not  believe  his  ship  would  get  in  till  late,  and 
managers  would  particularly  dislike  being  done  out 
of  her  Saturday  night  turn.  Perhaps  she  ought  to 
have  left  the  previous  week,  she  thought.  It  was 
foolish  to  rush  things  so  close.  But  it  was  not  so 
easy  to  give  up  the  habits  of  years,  and  activity 
allayed  the  fever  of  waiting.  She  had  sent  an  ardent 
letter  to  meet  the  ship  at  Southampton,  saying  he 
was  to  call  at  the  Lee  Carters'  in  Oxbridge  Terrace 
on  Sunday  afternoon,  which  she  had  to  herself. 
Being  only  a  poor  governess,  she  would  be  unable  to 
meet  him  at  the  station  or  receive  him  at  the  house 
on  Saturday  night,  even  if  he  got  in  so  early.  He 
must  be  resigned  to  her  situation,  she  added  jestingly. 
On  the  Saturday  afternoon  she  received  a  wire  full 
of  their  own  hieroglyphic  love-words,  grumbling  but 
obeying.  How  could  he  live  till  Sunday  afternoon  ? 
Why  hadn't  she  resigned  her  situation  ? 

As  she  was  starting  for  the  Halls  for  the  last  time, 
in  the  dusk  of  a  Spring  day,  a  special  messenger  put 
into  her  hand  a  letter  he  had  scribbled  in  the  train. 
He  was  in  London  then.  Her  heart  thumped  with 
a  medley  of  emotions  as  she  tore   open  the  letter : 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  533 

"  Oh,  my  darling,  I  shall  see  you  at  last  face  to  face 
—  "  But  she  had  no  time  to  spend  under  the  hall- 
light  reading  it.  In  her  cab  she  struck  a  match  and 
read  another  scrap.  "  But,  oh,  cruel  one,  not  to  let 
me  come  to-night !  "  She  winced.  That  gave  her  a 
pause.  If  she  had  let  him  come — to  the  Half-and- 
Half  !  He  would  turn  from  her,  shuddering.  And 
was  it  not  precisely  to  the  Half-and-Half  that  honour 
should  have  invited  him  ?  The  Half-and-Half  ar- 
rived at  the  cab  window  ere  she  had  finished  ponder- 
ing.    She  thrust  the  letter  into  her  pocket. 

XVII 

Would  she  ever  get  through  her  three  Halls  ?  It 
did  not  seem  as  if  she  had  strength  for  the  Half-and- 
Half  itself.  She  nerved  herself  to  the  task,  and 
knew,  not  merely  from  the  shrieks  of  delight,  that 
she  had  surpassed  herself.  Happy  and  flushed  she 
flung  herself  into  her  waiting  cab. 

She  had  the  9.45  turn  at  her  second  and  most  fash- 
ionable Hall  —  a  Hall  where  the  chairman  had  been 
replaced  by  programme  numbers  —  and  then  would 
come  her  third  and  last  appearance  at  10.35.  It  was 
strange  to  think  that  in  another  hour  Nelly  O'Neill's 
career  would  be  over.  It  seemed  like  murdering  her. 
Yes,  Eileen  O'Keeffe  would  be  her  murderess.  Well, 
why  not  murder  what  lay  between  one  and  happiness  ? 
As  she  waited  at  the  wings,  just  before  going  on, 
while   the    orchestra   played    her   opening  bars,   she 


534  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

glanced  diagonally  at  the  packed  stalls,  and  her 
heart  stood  still.  There  in  the  second  row  sat 
Colonel  Doherty,  smoking  a  big  cheroot.  Instinc- 
tively she  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  ;  then  swayed 
back  and  was  caught  by  the  man  who  changed  the 
programme-numbers. 

"  Is  No.  9  come  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"  I  think  so  ;  aren't  you  well,  Miss  O'Neill  ?  " 

"  For  God's  sake,  give  me  breathing  space,"  she 
said,  with  a  last  wild  peep  at  the  Colonel.  Yes,  there 
was  no  mistaking  him  after  the  three  new  portraits 
he  had  sent  her.  He  was  in  cheerful  conversation 
with  a  stout,  sallow  gentleman  of  the  Anglo-Indian 
stage-type.  Both  were  in  immaculate  evening-dress 
and  wore  white  orchids.  How  fortunate  she  had 
refused  to  send  any  photograph  in  return,  pleading 
ugliness  but  really  afraid  of  theatrical  sketches  that 
might  find  their  way  to  the  officers'  mess ! 

The  band  stopped,  changed  its  tune,  No.  9  appeared 
on  the  board ;  there  was  a  murmur  of  confusion. 

"  No,  by  Heaven,  I'll  face  the  music,"  she  said  with 
grim  humour.  She  almost  hustled  the  hastening 
juggler  out  of  the  way.  She  was  in  a  whirlwind 
of  excitement.  So  he  was  there  —  well,  so  much  the 
better.  He  had  saved  her  from  lying.  He  had 
given  her  an  easy  way  of  confessing.  Words  were 
so  inadequate,  he  should  see  the  reality :  the  stage 
to-night  would  be  her  confessional.  She  would  ex- 
tenuate nothing.     She  would  throw  herself  furiously 


THE  SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  535 

into  the  fun  and  racket ;  go  to  her  broadest  limits, 
else  the  confession  would  be  inadequate.  Then  .  .  . 
if  he  survived  the  shock,  .  .  .  why  then,  perhaps, 
she'd  insist  on  going  on  with  this  double  life  .  .  .  ! 
He  had  risen  in  his  seat.  No,  no,  he  must  not  go 
away,  she  could  not  risk  the  juggler  boring  him. 

"  I'm  better  ;  I  mustn't  be  late  at  my  next  shop," 
she  murmured  apologetically  as  the  number  and  the 
music  were  changed  back. 

"Ah,  she's  come  —  she  was  late,"  came  the  mur- 
murs of  the  audience  as  it  stirred  in  excited  expec- 
tation. 

She  flung  on  roguish,  feverish,  diabolical,  seductive 
in  low-cut  bodice  pranked  with  flowers.  It  was  a 
frenzy  of  impromptu  extravagance,  dazzling  even  the 
orchestra ;  each  line  accentuated  by  new  gesture,  the 
verses  supplemented  by  new  monologue  ;  a  miracle  of 
chic  and  improvisation,  and  the  house  rose  at  it.  Out 
of  the  mist  before  her  eyes  thunder  seemed  to  come 
in  great  roars  and  crashes.  She  almost  groped  her 
way  to  the  wing. 

She  was  recalled.  The  mist  cleared.  She  bowed 
direct  at  him,  smiling  defiance  from  her  sparkling 
eyes.  He  was  applauding  with  his  hands,  his  stick, 
his  lungs  !  Was  it  possible  ?  —  yes,  he  had  not  recog- 
nised her ! 

Now  came  a  new  revulsion.  Again  she  felt  her- 
self saved.  She  sang  her  other  songs  straight  at 
him,  and    exaggerated    them  equally,  half  to  tempt 


536  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

Providence,  half  as  a  bold  way  of  keeping  Eileen 
still  concealed.  She  heard  his  companion  chuckling, 
"  By  Jove,  Willie,  she's  mashed  on  you,"  as  she  threw 
a  farewell  kiss  towards  him.  Then  she  hurried  to 
her  dressing-room  and  took  out  his  letter.  She  had 
transferred  it  to  the  pocket  of  her  theatrical  gown, 
but  had  not  as  yet  found  time  to  finish  it.  Even 
before  she  re-perused  it,  another  emotion  had  begun 
to  possess  her,  a  rush  of  resentment.  So  this  was 
how  he  amused  himself  while  waiting  to  clasp  her  in 
his  arms  !  How  would  he  ever  live  through  the 
hours  till  Sunday  afternoon,  forsooth  !  She  was 
jealous  of  the  applause  he  lavished  on  Nelly  O'Neill, 
incensed  at  his  levity,  at  his  immaculate  evening- 
dress,  at  his  white  orchid.  How  dare  he  be  so  gay 
and  debonair  ?  Her  anger  rose  as  she  read  his  pro- 
testations, his  romantic  professions.  "  O  my  darling, 
I  shall  sit  up  all  night,  thinking  of  you,  re-reading  all 
your  dear  letters,  recalling  our  past,  picturing  our 
future.     In  short,  as  old  Landor  puts  it :  — 

" '  A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 
I  consecrate  to  thee.1 " 

She  crumpled  the  paper  in  her  hand.  There  was  a 
knock  at  the  door ;  Fossy  poked  his  head  in.  He 
had  risen  in  the  world  of  Halls,  even  as  Nelly 
O'Neill. 

"  Might  I    present   two    friends    of    mine  ?     They 
want  so  much  to  know  you." 


THE  SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  537 

"  You  know  I  never  see  anybody,  and  that  I  have 
to  hurry  off." 

"  Then,  I  was  to  give  you  this  bouquet." 

He  handed  in  a  costly  floral  mass.  Amid  it  lay  a 
card,  "Colonel  Doherty."  She  crumpled  his  letter 
more  viciously. 

"  Tell  them  I  can  give  them  ten  minutes  only. 
Oh,  Fossy,  it's  an  amusing  Show,  isn't  it  ? " 

"  It  was  a  rattling  good  show,"  said  Fossy,  half 
puzzled.     "  Come  in,  boys." 

Entered  the  Anglo-Indian  twain  with  shining  faces 
and  shirt-fronts,  cheroots  politely  lowered. 

"  Oh,  smoke  away,  gentlemen,"  cried  Nelly  O'Neill, 
facing  them  in  all  the  dazzle  of  her  flesh  and  the 
crudity  of  her  stage-paint,  and  her  over-lustrous  eyes, 
"  don't  mind  me.     Which  of  you  is  the  Colonel  ?  " 

The  stout,  sallow  gentleman  jocosely  pushed  his 
tall  flaxen-haired  companion  forward.  "  Oh,  I  knew 
the  Major  was  out  of  it,"  he  grinned. 

"  Not  at  all,  Major,"  said  Nelly.  "  I  only  wanted 
to  know  which  I  had  to  thank  for  these  lovely 
flowers." 

"  You  have  yourself  to  thank,"  said  the  Colonel, 
smartly.  "  By  Jove  !  You  gave  us  a  treat.  London 
was  worth  coming  back  to." 

"  Ah,  you've  been  away  from  London  ?  " 

"Just  back  this  very  day  from  India  —  " 

"  And  of  course  the  first  thing  after  a  good  dinner 
is  the  good  old  Friv —  "  put  in  the  Major. 


638  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

"  Thank  you,  Major,"  said  Fossy.  "That's  hand- 
some of  you.  And  now  I'll  leave  you  to  Miss 
O'Neill." 

"  That's  handsomer  still,"  said  the  Colonel.  And 
the  three  men  guffawed.     Eileen  felt  sick. 

The  Major  began  to  talk  of  the  music-halls  of 
India ;  the  Colonel  chimed  in.  They  treated  her  as 
a  comrade,  told  her  anecdotes  of  the  coulisses  of 
Calcutta.     The  Colonel  retailed  a  jest  of  the  bazaars. 

"  I  permit  smoke,  not  smoking-room  stories,"  she 
said  severely.  At  which  the  twain  poked  each  other 
shriekingly  in  the  ribs.  After  that  Eileen  let  the 
Colonel  have  rope  enough  to  hang  himself  with, 
though  she  felt  it  cutting  cruelly  into  her  own  flesh. 
It  was  an  orgie  of  the  eternal  masculine,  spiced  with 
the  aroma  of  costly  cigars. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said,  when  she  had  let  them 
have  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  run.  "  I  really  must  fly." 
And  she  seized  the  bouquet,  and  carefully  adjusted 
his  card  in  the  glowing  mass.  "Won't  you  come 
and  have  tea  with  me  to-morrow  ?     About  four." 

The  Colonel  winced.  "  I  fear«  I  have  another 
appointment." 

"Oh,  rot!  I'll  bring  him,"  said  the  Major. 
"  Where  do  you  hang  out  ?  " 

"22  Oxbridge," — her  hesitation  was  barely  per- 
ceptible —  "  Crescent." 

The  Colonel  started.  "  Do  you  know  it,  Colonel  ?" 
She  looked  at  him  ingenuously. 


THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS 


539 


"  No,  but  how  odd  !  My  other  appointment  is  at 
22  Oxbridge  Terrace." 

"  How  funny  !  "  laughed  Eileen.  "Just  round  the 
corner.  Then  you'll  be  able  to  kill  two  ladies  with 
one  cab."  And  she  fled  from  the  Major's  cachin- 
nation. 


XVIII 

She  had  missed  her  turn  at  the  third  Hall,  but  she 
did  not  care.  She  went  on  and  gave  a  spiritless  per- 
formance. It  fell  dead,  but  she  cared  less.  Her 
head  throbbed  with  a  dozen  possibilities.  She  was 
still  undiscovered.  As  she  sat  resting  on  her  couch 
ere  resuming  her  work-a-day  gown,  her  nerves 
stretched  to  snapping  point,  and  old  Irish  songs 
crooning  themselves  irrelevantly  in  her  brain,  a 
telegram  was  handed  her. 

"  He  has  found  out,"  she  thought,  going  hot  and 
cold.  She  tore  open  the  pink  envelope  .  .  .  and 
burst  into  a  shriek  of  laughter.  The  dresser  rushed 
in,  wondering.  Nelly  O'Neill  merely  held  her  sides, 
jollity  embodied.  "Oh,  the  Show,  the  Show!"  she 
gasped,  the  tears  streaking  her  painted  cheeks. 

The  telegram  that  hung  between  her  fingers  in  two 
sheets  ran  :  "  Reply  prepaid.  I  don't  know  the  ways 
of  the  stage  so  I  send  you  this  as  a  sure  way  of  reach- 
ing you  to  ask  when  and  where  I  may  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  calling  upon  your  friend,  Miss  O'Keeffe,  and 


540  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

renewing  the  study  of  Plato.—  Robert  Maper,  Hotel 
Belgravia." 

"Any  answer,  miss?"  said  the  imperturbable 
doorkeeper. 

The  answer  flashed  irresistibly  into  her  mind  as 
he  spoke.  Oh,  she  would  play  up  to  Bob  Maper. 
Doubtless  he  imagined  her  fallen  to  the  level  of 
her  metier,  though  he  wasn't  insulting.  She  scrib- 
bled hastily :  "  Robert  Maper,  Hotel  Belgravia.  I 
am  waiting  at  the  Hall  for  you.  Come  and  take  me 
to  supper.  —  Eileen  O'Neill."  She  gave  instruc- 
tions he  was  to  be  admitted.  Then  she  relapsed 
into  her  hysteric  amusement.  "  Oh,  the  merry  mas- 
ter of  marionettes,  the  night  my  love  comes  from 
beyond  the  seas,  you  send  me  to  supper  with  Robert 
Maper."  She  waited  with  impatience.  Now  that 
the  long-dreaded  discovery  had  come,  she  was  con- 
sumed with  curiosity  as  to  its  effect  upon  the  discov- 
erer. At  last  she  remembered  to  wash  off  the  rouge 
and  the  messes  necessary  for  stage-perspective.  Her 
winsome  face  came  back  to  her  in  the  mirror,  angelic 
by  contrast,  and  while  she  was  looking  wonderingly 
at  this  mystic  flashing  mask  of  hers,  there  was  a 
knock,  and  in  another  instant  she  was  looking  into 
the  eyes  burning  unchanged  under  the  white  marble 
mantel-piece. 

"  Ah,  there  you  are !  "  she  said  gaily,  and  shook 
his  hand  as  though  they  had  met  the  evening  before. 
"  Where  shall  we  go  ?  " 


THE  SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  541 

He  accepted  the  situation.  "  I  don't  know  —  I 
thought  you  would  know." 

"  I  don't —  I  never  supped  with  a  man  in  my  life." 

He  flushed  with  complex  pleasure  and  surprise. 
"  Really  !     Oh,  Eileen  !  " 

"  Hush  !  Call  me  Nelly,  if  you  must  be  Christian. 
I  suppose  you  think  you  may,  now." 

"I  —  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  stammered,  discon- 
certed. 

"  Don't  look  so  gaspy  —  poor  little  thing  !  It  shall 
be  thrown  back  into  the  water.  Will  you  carry  my 
bouquet  ? " 

"With  pleasure."  He  grasped  it  eagerly,  and 
carried  it  towards  the  stage  door  and  a  hansom. 

"It  wanted  only  that,"  she  said.  "Oh,  the  Show, 
the  Show  ! " 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Do  I  understand  myself  ?  "  They  got  into  the 
hansom.     "  Where  shall  we  go  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"  Places  all  close  at  twelve  on  Saturday  night." 

"  Ah,  do  they  ?     Your  hotel  also  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  one  may  eat  at  one's  own  hotel. 
If  you  don't  mind  going  there  —  " 

"  If  yon  don't  mind,  rather." 

"  I  ?     Who  is  my  censor  ?  " 

"Ah,  the  word  admits  I'm  discreditable.  Never 
mind,  Bob.     See  how  Christian  I  am." 

"  No,  no,  I've  felt  it  was  all  my  doing.  Indirectly  I 
drove  you  to  it  —  oh,  how  you  have  weighed  on  me!" 


542  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

"  Really,  I'd  quite  forgotten  you." 

He  winced  and  gasped.  "Hotel  Belgravia,"  he 
called  up  through  the  trap-door. 

"Very  strange  you  should  find  me,"  she  said,  as 
they  glided  through  the  flashing  London  night. 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  knew  you  blindfold,  so  to 
speak.  You  forget  how  I  used  to  stand  outside  the 
drawing-room,  listening  to  your  singing." 

"Eavesdropper!"  she  murmured.  But  he  struck 
a  tender  chord  —  all  the  tender  chords  of  her  twilight 
playing  that  now  rose  up  softly  and  floated  around 
her. 

"  Eavesdropper  if  you  like,  who  heard  nothing  that 
was  not  beautiful.  And  so  I  hadn't  to  look  for  you. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  wasn't  looking  but  consulting 
my  programme  to  know  who  number  eleven  was, 
when  you  began  to  sing." 

"  If  you  had  looked  you  wouldn't  have  recognised 
me,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  Probably  not.  The  stage  get-up  would  have 
blurred  my  memories." 

She  began  to  like  him  again :  the  oddness  of  it  all 
was  appealing.  "  Nevertheless,"  she  said,  "  it  is 
strange  you  should  just  find  me  to-night,  for  I —  " 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  he  interrupted  eagerly.  "  I've  been 
every  night  this  week." 

"  Ah,  eavesdropping  again,"  she  said,  touched. 

"I  wanted  to  be  absolutely  sure — and  then  I 
couldn't  pluck  up  courage  to  write  to  you." 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  543 

"  But  you  did  to-night  ?  " 

"  You  looked  so  tired  —  I  felt  I  wanted  to  protect 
you." 

A  sob  came  into  her  throat,  but  she  managed  to 
say  coldly,  "  Was  I  very  bad  ?  " 

"To  one  who  had  seen  you  the  other  nights,"  he 
said  with  complimentary  candour. 

She  laughed.     "  How  is  your  mother  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she's  very  well,  thank  you.  She  lives  in 
London  now." 

"  Then  your  father  has  retired  from  —  " 

"  He  is  dead,  —  didn't  you  hear  ?  " 

''No."  Eileen  sat  in  shocked  silence.  "I  am 
sorry,"  she  murmured  at  length.  But  underneath 
this  mild  shock  she  was  conscious  —  as  they  rolled 
on  without  speaking  —  of  a  new  ease  that  had  come 
into  her  life :  some  immense  relaxation  of  tension. 
"  A  hunted  criminal  must  breathe  more  calmly  when 
he  is  caught,"  she  thought. 


XIX 

"Lucky  I'm  in  evening  dress,"  she  said,  loosening 
her  cloak  as  they  went  through  a  corridor,  shimmer- 
ing with  dresses  and  diamonds,  to  a  crowded  supper- 
room. 

"  But  you're  always  in  evening  dress,  surely." 
"  I  might  have  been  in  tights."     And  she  had  a 
malicious    self-wounding    pleasure    in  watching    him 


544  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

gasp.  She  hurried  into  a  revelation  of  her  exact 
position,  as  soon  as  they  had  secured  a  just-vacated 
little  table  in  a  window  niche.  She  omitted  only 
Colonel  Doherty. 

He  listened  breathlessly.  "  And  nobody  knows 
you  are  Eileen  O'Keeffe,  I  mean  Nelly  O'Neill?" 

She  laughed.  "  You  see  you  don't  know  which 
I  am." 

"  It's  incredible." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  your  theories  of  credibility. 
The  longer  I  live,  the  less  the  Show  surprises  me." 

"  What  show  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  too  long  to  explain.  Say  Vanity  Fair." 
Her  thumb  fell  into  its  old  habit  of  flicking  the  table. 
There  was  a  silence. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  told  me,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Why?" 

A  waiter  loomed  over  them. 

"  Supper,  Sir  Robert  ?  " 

She  glanced  quickly  at  her  companion. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "A/a  buonissima  !  I  leave  it  to 
you.     And  champagne." 

"Prestissimo,  Sir  Robert."  He  smirked  himself 
off. 

"  Why  does  he  call  you  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  didn't  you  know  my  poor  father  was  made  a 
Baronet,  after  we  entertained  Royalty  ?  " 

"  No ;  how  strange  your  lives  should  have  been 
going  on  all  the  time !  "     The  pop  of  a  cork  at  her 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  545 

elbow  startled    her.     Then    she    lifted    her    frothing 
glass.     "Sir  —  to  you  !  " 

He  clinked  his  against  it.  "  To  the  lady  of  my 
dreams." 

"  Still  ?  "     She  sipped  the  wine :  her  eyes  sparkled. 

"Yes;  I've  still  a  long  opinion  of  myself." 

She  put  out  her  hand  quickly  and  pressed  his  an 
instant. 

"Thank  you  !  "  he  said  huskily.  "  That  was  why 
I  said  I  was  sorry  to  know  that  to  the  world  you 
were  still  a  governess.  Of  course  I  was  glad, 
too." 

"  I  don't  understand.  I  always  said  you  were 
more  Irish  than  I." 

"  I  was  glad  you  had  kept  yourself  unspotted  from 
the  stage-world." 

"  Good  God  !  You  call  that  unspotted  !  What  are 
men  made  of  ?  " 

"  You  were  in  a  bad  atmosphere.  Your  lips  caught 
phrases." 

•  "  Nonsense.    I'm  a  crow,  not  a  parrot ;  a  thoroughly 
sooty  bird." 

"It  was  your  whiteness  that  attracted  —  your 
morning  freshness.  You  don't  know  what  vulgar- 
ity is." 

"You  don't  know  what  /am." 

"  I  know  you  to  your  delicious  finger-tips.  And 
that's  whyjl  am  sorry  you  told  me  so  much.  I  wanted 
to  ask  Nelly  O'Neill  to  marry  me.     Now  she'll  think 


546  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

I'm  only  asking  Eileen  O'Keeffe,  the  daughter  of  the 
Irish  gentleman." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  No,  they  both  believe 
you  capable  of  any  folly.  Besides,  somebody  would 
find  out  Nelly  all  the  same."  And  a  smile  made  a 
rainbow  across  her  tears. 

The  arrival  of  the  soup  relaxed  the  tension  of 
emotion.  In  mid-plate  she  suddenly  put  down  her 
spoon  and  laughed  softly. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  he  said,  not  without  alarm  at  her 
transitions. 

"  Why,  it  would  be  one  of  those  stock  theatrical 
marriages,  into  which  we  entrap  titles  !  Fascinated 
by  a  Serio-Comic,  poor  silly  young  man.  She  played 
her  cards  well,  that  Nelly.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Who 
would  dream  of  Plato's  dialogues  ?  And  you  talk 
of  incredible  ! " 

"  I  am  content  to  be  called  silly."  He  tried  to 
take  her  hand. 

"  Well,  don't  be  it  in  public.  You  will  rank  with 
Lord  Tippleton  who  married  Bessie  Bilhook,  and 
made  a  Lady  of  her  —  the  only  ladyhood  she's  ever 
known." 

"  No,  I  can't  rank  with  him,"  he  smiled  back. 
"  I'm  only  a  Baronet." 

"  It  sounds  the  same.  Lady  Maper !  '  she  mur- 
mured. "  But,  oh,  how  funny !  There'd  be  two 
Lady  Mapers." 

"  My  mother  would  be  the  Dowager  Lady  — " 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  547 

"That's  funnier  still." 

He  ate  in  silence.  Eileen  mused  on  the  picture  of 
the  Dowager,  her  forefinger  to  heaven. 

"The  Royalty  —  how  did  that  go  off?"  she  said, 
as  he  carved  the  chicken. 

"  With  fireworks.  For  the  reception  father  built  a 
new  house  and  furnished  it  with  old  furniture.  Roy- 
alty stopped  an  hour  and  a  quarter.  Oh,  she  was 
wonderful.  I  mean  my  mother.  Copied  your  phrases 
—  see  what  an  impression  you  made." 

"  And  what  have  you  been  doing  since  you  came 
into  the  title  ?  " 

"  Looking  for  you." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  She  dropped  her  fork.  "  But  you 
knew  I  had  people  in  Ireland." 

"  I  never  knew  exactly  where." 

"  But  what  put  you  on  the  track  of  the  music- 
halls  ? " 

"  Nothing.  I  never  dreamed  of  looking  for  you 
there.  I  just  went."  Master  Harold  Lee  Carter's 
phrase  flashed  back  to  her  memory,    "  All  the  chaps 

go-" 

"  But  what  about  the  Black  Hole  —  I   mean  the 

works  ? " 

"  They  go  on,"  he  said.     "  I  just  get  the  profits." 

"  And  how  about  your  Socialism  ?  " 

"  You  taught  me  the  fallacy  of  it." 

"  I  ?     Well,  that's  the  cream  of  the  joke." 

"Yes.      Don't   laugh   at  me,    please.     When   you 


548  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

came  into  my  life,  or  rather  when  you  went  out  of  it 
—  yes,  I  am  Irish  —  I  saw  that  money  and  station 
are  the  mere  veneer  of  life :  the  central  reality  is  — 
Love." 

Again  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  she  remained 
silent. 

"  And  I  saw  that  I,  the  master,  was  really  poorer 
than  the  majority  of  my  serfs,  with  their  wives  and 
bairns." 

"You  are  a  good  fellow,"  she  murmured.  "I  —  I 
meant  to  say,"  she  corrected  herself,  "what  have  you 
done  with  your  clothes  ?  " 

"My  clothes!"  he  echoed  vaguely,  looking  down 
at  his  spotless  shirt-front. 

"  Your  factory  clothes  !  Wouldn't  it  be  fun  to  wear 
them  at  supper  here  ?  Do  you  think  they  could  turn 
you  out  ?  I  don't  see  how,  legally.  Do  test  the  ques- 
tion. Yes,  do.  Please  do."  And  she  laid  her  hand  on 
his  black  sleeve.     "  I  won't  marry  you  if  you  don't." 

"  I  did  think  you  were  serious  to-night,  Eileen,"  he 
said,  disappointed. 

"  How  could  you  think  that,  if  you  read  the  pro- 
gramme, as  you  say?  'Nelly  O'Neill,  Serio-Comic.' 
Allons,  ne  faites  cette  tete  mine  de  Jiibou.  Admit  the 
world  is  entirely  ridiculous  and  give  me  some  more 
champagne."     Her  eyes  glittered  strangely. 

A  clock  struck  twelve. 

"  What,  midnight !  "  she  cried,  starting  up.  "  I 
must  go." 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  549 

"  No,  no  ;  "  he  took  her  hand. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  don't  you  know,  at  the  stroke  of  mid- 
night I  change  back  to  a  governess." 

"  Well,  the  magic  didn't  work,  for  that  clock's  very 
slow.     Sit  down,  please." 

"You  have  spoken  the  omen.  I  remain  Nelly 
O'Neill  and  drop  Eileen  for  ever.      Vogue  la  galtre." 

"  Absit  omen  !  "     He  shuddered. 

"  Why  not  ?     What  do  you  offer  me  ?     The  love  of 
one  man.     But  my  public  loves  me  as  one   man  - 
with  a   much    more  voluminous  love  —  I   love  it  in 
return.     Why  should  I  change  ?  " 

"  Shall  we  say  merely  because  the  public  changes  ? 
I  am  constant." 

"  Yes,  you  are  very  wonderful.  .  .  .  And  if  it's 
to-morrow  already,  my  fate  will  be  settled  to-day. 
Drink  to  my  destiny." 

"  I  drink  to  our  destiny,"  he  said,  raising  his  glass. 

"  No.     Only  to  mine.     It  will  be  decided  this  after- 


noon." 


"You  will  give  me  your  answer  this  afternoon  ? "  he 
cried  joyfully. 

"  I  don't  say  that.  It's  my  answer  I  shall  know 
this  afternoon.  Yours  you  shall  have  to-morrow 
afternoon.  You  don't  mind  giving  me  one  day's 
option  of  your  hand  ?  " 

"  One  day's  !     When  you  have  had —  " 

She  interrupted  impatiently.  "  Let  bygones  be 
bygones.     You  shall  have  a  letter  by  Monday  after- 


550  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

noon.  But,  oh,  Heavens !  how  could  we  marry  ? 
You  believe  in  nothing!" 

"  There's  the  Registrar." 

She  pouted  :  "  Dry  legality.  No  flowers,  no  organ, 
no  feeling  sweet  and  virginal  in  a  long  veil.  Oh, 
dear!     Besides,  there's  mother — " 

"  I  don't  object  to  the  church  ceremony." 

"  I'm  glad.  The  law  may  end  marriage.  Marriage 
shouldn't  begin  with  law.  It  ought  to  look  beautiful 
at  the  start,  at  least,  though  one  may  know  it's  a  shaky 
scraw." 

"  A  shaky  what  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  an  Irish  term  for  a  bit  of  black  bog  that 
looks  like  lovely  green  meadow.  You  step  out  so 
gaily  on  the  glittering  grass,  and  then  squish ! 
squash  !  down  you  go  to  choke  in  the  ooze." 

"  Don't  be  so  pessimistic.  It  would  be  much  more 
sensible  to  think  of  marriage  as  solid  meadow-land 
after  your  present  scramble  over  a  shaky  what-d'ye- 
call  it." 

"  True  for  you !  I  give  you  the  stage  as  the 
shakiest  of  all  scraws.  But  where  is  solid  footing 
to  be  found  ?  The  world  itself  is  only  a  vast  bog 
that  sucks  in  the  generations." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  asked  you  to  be  serious,"  he  said 
glumly.     "  You're  such  a  quick-change  artiste." 

"  I  must  quickly  assume  the  governess  or  I'll  lose 
my  character,"  she  said,  rising  resolutely. 

He  put  her  cloak  tenderly  round  her. 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  551 

"You  know  I'll  take  you  without  a  character,"  he 
said  lightly. 

"  If  I  had  no  character  I  might  be  tempted  to  take 
you,"  she  retorted  dispiritingly.  "  Thank  you  so 
much  for  my  first  supper." 


XX 

Eileen  slept  little.  The  dramatic  possibilities  of 
the  interview  with  Colonel  Doherty  were  too  agitat- 
ing and  too  numerous.  This  time  the  marionette- 
play  needed  writing.  Who  should  receive  him  when 
he  called  ?     Eileen  O'Keeffe  or  Nelly  O'Neill  ? 

Either  possibility  offered  exquisite  comedy. 

Eileen  —  as  plain  as  possible  —  with  a  high,  black 
dress,  drooped  lids,  stiffly  brushed  hair,  even  eye- 
glasses perhaps,  with  a  deportment  redolent  of  bread- 
and-butter  and  five-finger  exercises,  could  perhaps 
disenchant  him  sufficiently  to  make  him  moderate  his 
matrimonial  ardour,  even  to  hurry  off  apologetically 
to  his  serio-comic  Circe  round  the  corner.  What  a 
triumph  of  acting  if  she  could  drive  him  to  her  rival ! 
Then  as  he  went  through  the  door — to  loosen  her 
hair,  throw  off  her  glasses  and  whistle  him  back  to 
Nelly  O'Neill! 

The  part  was  tempting ;  it  bristled  with  opportuni- 
ties. But  it  was  also  too  trying.  He  might  begin  by 
taking  lover's  liberties,  and  the  strain  of  repulsing 
him  would  be  too  great.     Besides,  she  wasn't   clear 


552  THE  SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

how  to  play  the  opening  of  the  scene.  But  then 
there  was  another  star  part  open  to  her. 

Nelly  O'Neill's  role  was  much  easier:  it  played 
itself.  She  had  only  to  go  on  with  the  episode. 
And  the  way  the  episode  went  on  would  also  serve 
to  determine  finally  her  attitude  when  the  moment 
came  to  throw  off  the  mask  and  turn  to  governess. 
The  only  difficult  moment  would  be  the  first  —  to 
obfuscate  him  immediately  with  the  notion  that  he 
had  mixed  up  the  two  addresses.  Even  if  she  failed 
and  he  realised  his  ghastlier  blunder,  it  would  only 
precipitate  the  dramatic  duel  which  she  must  face 
sooner  or  later.  All  these  high-strung  possibilities 
deadened  the  horrible  pain  she  knew  her  soul  held 
for  her,  as  soldiers  carry  wounds  to  be  felt  when  the 
charge  is  over.  She  fell  asleep  near  morning,  her 
battle  planned,  and  slept  late,  a  sleep  full  of  strange 
dreams,  in  one  of  which  her  drunken  father  counted 
her,  and  couldn't  decide  how  many  she  was.  "  It's 
two  I  am,  father  asthore,  only  two,  Eileen  and 
Nelly,"  she  kept  crying.     But  he  counted  on. 

Towards  four  in  the  afternoon  she  posted  herself  at 
the  window.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  to  the 
comedy  that  she  should  open  the  door  to  him  herself. 
At  last  a  cab  containing  him  halted  at  the  door.  She 
flew  down,  just  supplanting  the  butler. 

"  How  good  of  you,  Colonel !  "  she  cried.  "  But 
where  is  the  Major  ?  " 

It  was  exquisitely  calculated.     She  had  pulled  the 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  553 

string  and  the  marionette  moved  with  precision.  A 
daze,  a  flash,  a  stammer  —  all  the  embarrassment  of 
a  man  who  believes  that  in  a  day-dream  he  has  given 
a  second  address  first. 

"Miss  —  Miss  O'Neill,"  he  stuttered,  mechanically 
removing  his  hat. 

"  Nelly  to  my  friends,"  she  smiled  fascinatingly. 
"  Come  in  !  "  Christopher  Sly  was  not  more  bewil- 
dered when  he  opened  his  eyes  on  the  glories  of  his 
Court. 

"What  —  what  is  this  address?"  he  blurted,  as 
she  prisoned  him  by  closing  the  door. 

"  Why  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  know.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  You've 
come  to  the  Crescent  instead  of  the  Terrace." 

"That  confounded  cabman!  I'm  sure  I  told  him 
the  Terrace." 

"  Don't  swear.  He's  more  accustomed  to  the 
Crescent.  So  many  pros  coming  home  late,  and  all 
that !  " 

He  hesitated  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  "  I  really 
think  I  ought  to  call  there  first.  .  .  ." 

Now  all  the  coquette  in  Nelly  O'Neill  rose  to 
detain  him,  subtly  tangled  with  the  actress.  She 
pouted  adorably.  "  Oh,  now  you're  here,  can't  you 
put  her  second  for  once  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  say  it  was  a  her.'1'' 

"A  she,"  corrected  the  governess,  instinctively. 
Nelly  hastened  to  add,  "  No  man  leaves  a  woman  for 
a  man." 


554  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

"This  is  such  an  old  appointment,"  he  pleaded  in 
distress. 

"  I  see.  You  want  to  be  off  with  the  old  love 
before  you  are  on  with  the  new." 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,  I  assure  you." 

"  What !     Not  even  the  new  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  part !  "  He  smiled  and  followed  her 
up.     "You  won't  mind  my  going  soon?" 

"  The  sooner  the  better  if  you  talk  like  that ! " 
She  threw  open  the  door  of  her  little  sitting-room. 
How  well  the  Show  was  going ! 

"A  soda  and  whisky,  Colonel  ?  I  suppose  that's 
your  idea  of  tea."  She  had  the  scene  ready.  She 
had  got  it  all  up  like  a  little  play,  writing  down  the 
articles  on  a  sheet  of  paper  headed  "  Property  List "  : 
"  Cigars,  cigarettes,  syphons,  spirits,  sporting-papers," 
all  borrowed  from  Master  Harold  Lee  Carter  to  enter- 
tain a  visitor. 

But  at  the  height  of  the  play's  prosperity,  while 
the  Colonel  clinked  tumblers  with  Nelly,  came  a 
contretemps,  and  all  the  farce  darkened  swiftly  to 
drama  as  the  gay  landscape  is  overgloomed  by  a 
thundercloud. 

It  all  came  from  Mrs.  Lee  Carter's  benevolent 
fussiness,  her  interest  in  the  man  who  had  come  to 
marry  her  governess.  A  servant  knocked  at  the  door, 
stuck  her  head  in,  and  said,  "  Mrs.  Lee  Carter's  com- 
pliments, and  would  you  like  some  tea  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Eileen,  hurriedly. 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  555 

But  as  the  door  closed,  the  Colonel's  glass  fell  to 
the  ground,  and  he  rose  to  his  feet.  His  bronzed 
face  was  working  wildly. 

"Mrs.  Lee  Carter!"  he  gasped.  "You — you  are 
Eileen  !  " 

"  Here's  a  mess,"  she  said  coolly,  stooping  to  wipe 
up  the  carpet. 

"  Eileen  !     Explain  !  "  he  said  piteously. 

"It's  you  that  ought  to  be  explaining.  I've  all  I 
can  do  to  pick  up  the  nasty  little  bits  of  glass." 

"  My  brain  reels.  Who  are  you  ?  What  arc  you  ? 
For  God's  sake." 

"  Hush  !     Who  are  you  ?     What  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  know  what  I  was  —  your  lover." 

"  Whose  ?     Mine  or  Nelly's  ?  " 

"Good  God,  Eileen  !  You  saw  how  anxious  I  was 
to  get  to  you.  That  I  was  subtly  drawn  to  Nelly  is 
only  a  proof  of  how  you  were  in  my  blood.  But 
you're  not  really  Nelly  O'Neill.  This  is  some  stupid 
practical  joke.     Don't  torture  me  longer." 

"  It  tortures  you  that  I  should  be  Nelly  O'Neill! "  All 
the  confessed  sweetness  of  her  position  came  up  into 
clear  consciousness  :  the  lights,  the  laughter,  the  very 
smell  of  the  smoke  endeared  by  a  thousand  triumphs. 
How  dared  he  speak  of  Nelly  O'Neill  as  though  she 
couldn't  be  touched  with  a  pitchfork!  Yes,  and  Bob 
Maper,  too  —  her  anger  ricocheted  to  him  —  with  his 
priggish  notions  of  saving  her  from  black  bogs  !  And 
who  was  it  that  now  stood  over  her  like  a  fuddled  accus- 


556  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

ing  angel  ?     She  pulled  out   his  letter  and  read  vi- 
ciously :  — 

" '  A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 
I  consecrate  to  thee.'  " 

"  I  was  dying  to  rush  to  you  —  you  wouldn't  see 
me.     And  the  Major  dragged  me — " 

"Through  all  that  mud?  All  those  Indian  esca- 
pades ?  " 

He  groaned,  "  And  you  listened  —  !  " 

"  Am  I  not  your  mother-confessor  ?  " 

He  seized  her  by  the  wrists.  "  Don't  madden  me  ! 
You're  not  really  on  the  Halls?  You  are  living  here 
as  governess.  It  is  some  prank,  some  masquerade ! 
Say  it  is!  "  He  shook  her.  She  tried  to  wrest  her 
hands  away. 

"  Not  till  you  tell  me  the  truth  !  You  haven't  been 
lying  to  me  all  these  months  ?  " 

A  sudden  remembrance  came  to  give  her  strength 
and  scorn.  "  I  have  told  you  the  truth,  only  my 
letter  crossed  you  on  the  ocean.  When  it  returns  to 
England,  you  will  see." 

His  grip  relaxed,  he  staggered  back.  "  Come," 
she  said,  pursuing  her  unforeseen  advantage.  "  We 
will  talk  this  thing  over  quietly.  I  always  said  you 
were  in  love  with  a  shadow.  But  I  find  it  was  I  who 
imagined  a  Bayard." 

"  And  what  have  I  done  and  said  worse  than  other 
men  ?  "     Again  Master  Harold  Lee  Carter's  compla- 


THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS  557 

cent  sentiment  came  to  her.  Men  were  all  alike,  only 
their  women  folk  didn't  know. 

"Worse  than  other  men!"  She  laughed  bitterly. 
"I  wanted  you  better  —  all  the  seven  heavens  better 
—  saint  as  well  as  hero,  with  no  thought  but  for  me, 
and  no  one  before  me  or  after  me.  Oh,  yes,  it  sounds 
a  large  order,  but  that's  what  we  women  want.  Don't 
speak  !  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say.  Skip  me. 
Talk  of  yourself." 

"  You  get  what  you  want.  The  other's  only  make- 
believe.  It  passes  like  water  from  a  duck's  back. 
You  women  don't  understand.  The  white  fire  of 
your  purity  cleanses  us,  and  that  is  why  we  will 
have  nothing  less  —  " 

"Ah,  now  you  have  skipped  to  me.  I'm  not  pre- 
tending there  isn't  an  evil  spirit  in  me  to  match  yours. 
It  split  away  from  me  and  became  Nelly  O'Neill.  You 
asked  which  I  was  ?  I  am  both.  Here,  I  am  a  re- 
spectable governess.  Let  me  ring  for  Mrs.  Lee 
Carter.  She'll  give  you  my  character.  The  white 
fire  and  all  that."     She  pressed  the  bell. 

"  Don't  be  so  absurd.  Give  me  time  to  collect  my 
senses." 

"  All  right,  pick  up  the  pieces,  while  I  collect 
these."     She  stooped  over  the  bits  of  glass. 

"  But  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  bring  that  woman 
into  it  —  " 

The  door  opened.     "  Yes,  miss  ?  " 

"  Another  glass,  please."    The  servant  disappeared. 


558  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

"  I  do  hope  you  won't  break  this  one.  In  what  coun- 
try is  it  that  the  bridegroom  breaks  a  glass  in  the 
marriage  ceremonial  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  remember.  Fossy 
told  me.  Among  the  Jews.  There's  a  lot  in  the 
profession.  Not  that  it's  such  a  marrying  profes- 
sion. And  to  think  I  might  have  been  a  regular 
bride!  But  I've  lost  you,  my  dear  boy,  hero  of  a 
hundred  hill-fights,  I  know  it  —  and  the  moment 
you've  picked  your  little  bits  of  senses  together, 
you'll  know  it,  too.  Alas,  we  shall  never  go  tiger- 
hunting  together. 

"  '  A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 
I  consecrate  to  thee.  '  " 

"  I  don't  say  I  won't  keep  my  promise,"  he  said 
sulkily. 

"  Your  promise  !  Hoity  toity  !  Upon  my  word  ! 
I'm  no  breach-of-promise  lady  —  Chops  and  tomato 
sauce  indeed  !  I  recognise  that  we  could  never  marry. 
There  would  always  be  that  between  us  !  " 

Her  fascination  gripped  him  in  proportion  as  she 
let  him  go. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  should  mind  if  nobody  really 
knows,"  he  began. 

"  You !  It's  I  that  would  mind.  And  I  really 
know.  Could  I  marry  a  man  who  had  told  me 
smoking-room  stories  ?  No,  Eileen  is  done  with  you. 
Good-by  ! " 

"  Good-by  ?      No,   I    can't   go.      I   can't   face   the 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  559 

emptiness.  You've  filled  me  and  fooled  me  with 
love  all  these  weeks.  Good  God  !  Do  you  owe  me 
nothing  ?  " 

"  I  leave  you  something —  Nelly  O'Neill !  Go  and 
see  her.  Now  you're  off  with  the  old  love.  You 
mark  what  a  prophetess  I  was.  Nelly'll  receive  you 
very  differently.  No  cant  of  superiority.  You'll  be 
just  a  pair  of  jolly  good  fellows.  You'll  sit  up  drink- 
ing whisky  together  and  yarning  anecdotes.  No  un- 
comfortable pretences ;  no  black  bog  posing  as  white 
fire ;  no  driven  snow  business,  London  snow  nicely 
trodden  in.  And  the  tales  of  the  world  you  tell 
me  —  how  useful  they'll  come  in  for  stage-patter ! 
Oh,  we  shall  be  happy  enough  !  We  can  still  pick 
up  the  pieces  !  " 

"  Eileen  !  Eileen  !  you  will  drive  me  mad.  What 
do  you  mean  ?  You  know  I  could  never  have  a  wife 
on  the  Halls.  It  would  ruin  me  in  the  clubs,  it 
would  —  " 

"  In  the  clubs  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Every  member  of 
which  would  be  delighted  to  have  tea  with  me !  But 
who's  proposing  to  you  a  wife  on  the  Halls  ?  You 
said  I  owed  you  myself,  and  it's  true,  but  you  don't 
suppose  I  could  marry  a  man  I  didn't  respect?  I 
told  you  we're  not  a  marrying  profession.  Come,  let's 
kiss  and  be  friends." 

He  drew  back  as  in  horror.  "  No,  no,  Eileen,  I  re- 
spect you  too  much  for  that." 

She  looked  at  him  long  and  curiously.    "  Yes,  the 


560  THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS 

sexes  don't  understand  each  other.  Well,  good-by. 
I  almost  could  marry  you,  after  all.  But  I'm  too  wise. 
Please  go.  I  have  a  headache  and  it  is  quite  pos- 
sible I  shall  scream.  Good-by,  dear.  I  was  never 
more  than  a  phantom  to  you  —  a  boyish  memory,  and 
a  bad  one  at  that.  Don't  you  know  you  gave  me 
a  pair  of  black  eyes  ?  Good-by  :  you'll  marry  a  dear, 
sweet  girl  in  white  muslin  who'll  never  know.  God 
bless  you." 

XXI 

Sir  Robert  Maper  simply  could  not  get  up  on  the 
Monday  morning.  The  agony  of  suspense  was  too 
keen,  and  he  lay  with  closed  eyes,  trying  to  drowse 
his  consciousness,  and  exchanging  it  in  his  fitful 
snatches  of  sleep  for  oppressive  dreams,  in  one  of 
which  Eileen  figured  as  a  Lorelei,  combing  her  locks 
on  a  rock  as  she  sang  her  siren  song. 

But  she  did  not  prolong  his  agony  beyond  mid-day. 

"  My  Dear  Sir  Robert, —  Both  of  us  are  dead  and 
gone,  so,  alas  !  neither  can  marry  you.  Don't  be 
alarmed,  we  are  only  dead  to  the  world,  and  gone 
to  the  Continent.  '  Get  thee  to  a  nunnery.'  Ham- 
let knew  best.  If  I  could  have  married  any  man  it 
would  have  been  you.  You  are  the  only  gentleman 
I  have  ever  known.  But  I  don't  love  you.  It's  a 
miserable  pity.  I  wish  I  did.  I  wonder  why  '  love ' 
is  an  active  verb  in  all  languages.     It  ought  to  have 


THE   SERIO-COMIC    GOVERNESS  561 

a  passive  form,  like  '  loquor '  (though  that  passive 
should  be  reserved  for  parrots).  Forgive  the  gover- 
ness !  I  seem  to  have  undergone  '  love  '  for  two  men, 
but  one  was  a  fool  and  the  other  not  quite  a  rogue, 
and  I  dare  say  I  never  really  loved  anybody  but  my- 
self (and  there  the  verb  is  very  active) !  I  love  to 
coquet,  but  the  moment  a  man  comes  too  close,  I  feel 
hunted.  I  dare  say  I  was  secretly  pleased  to  find  my 
hero  tripping,  so  as  to  send  him  packing.  Was  ever 
hero  in  such  a  comic  plight  ?  Poor,  unlucky  hero  ! 
But  this  will  be  Greek  to  you  —  the  kind  you  can't 
read.  Oh,  the  men  I  could  have  married  !  It  is  curi- 
ous, when  you  think  of  it,  the  men  one  little  woman 
might  marry  and  be  dutifully  absorbed  in.  I  could 
have  been  a  bass  chorister's  wife  or  a  Baronet's  wife, 
the  wife  of  an  Honourable  dolt,  and  the  wife  of  a 
dishonourable  dramatist.  J' en  passe  et  des  meilleurs. 
I  could  have  lived  in  Calcutta  or  in  Clerkenwell,  been 
received  in  Belgravia  or  in  Boulogne.  Good  Lord  ! 
the  parts  one  woman  is  supposed  to  be  fit  for,  while 
the  man  remains  his  stolid,  stupid  self.  Talk  of  the 
variety  stage  !  Or  is  it  that  they  all  want  the  same 
thing  of  her  ? 

"  Talking  of  the  variety  stage,  there  would  have 
been  the  danger,  too,  of  my  thirsting  for  it,  even 
with  a  Dowager  Lady  for  a  stepmother.  The  nos- 
talgia of  the  boards  is  a  disease  your  love  might  not 
have  warded  off.     You  are  well  rid  of  both  of  us. 

"  You  said  —  at   my  first   and  last  supper  —  that 


562  THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS 

money  and  station  are  the  mere  veneer  of  life,  the 
central  reality  is  love.  That  is  true,  if  by  love  you 
read  the  love  of  God,  of  Christ.  Do  you  remember 
my  going  one  day  over  the  works  with  your  poor 
father  ?  Well,  after  I  had  been  through  rooms  and 
rooms  of  whirring  machinery  infinitely  ingenious  and 
diversified — that  made  my  head  ache — they  took 
me  to  a  shed  where  stood  in  a  sort  of  giant  peace 
the  great  engine  that  moved  it  all.  '  God !  '  was  my 
instant  thought,  and  somehow  my  headache  fled. 
And  ever  since  then,  when  I  have  been  oppressed 
by  the  complex  clatter  of  life,  my  thought  has  gone 
back  to  that  power-room,  to  the  great  simple  force 
behind  it  all.  I  rested  in  the  thought  as  a  swimmer 
on  a  placid  ocean.  But  the  ocean  is  cold  and  infinite, 
and  of  late  I  have  longed  for  a  more  human  God  that 
loved  and  forgave,  and  so  I  come  back  to  the  Christ. 
You  see  Plato  never  satisfied  me.  Your  explanation 
of  the  B.  C.  glories  was  sown  on  barren  soil.  I  grant 
you  a  nobility  in  your  Plato  as  of  Greek  pillars,  soar- 
ing in  the  sunlight,  but  somehow  I  want  the  Gothic  — 
I  long  for  '  dim  religious  light '  and  windows  stained 
with  saints.  Oh,  to  find  my  soul  again  !  If  I  could 
tell  you  how  the  Convent  rises  before  me  as  a  vision 
of  blessedness — after  life's  'shaky  scraw  ' — the  cool 
cloisters,  the  rows  of  innocent  beds,  the  delicious  old 
garden.  There  are  tears  at  my  heart,  as  I  think  of  it. 
What  flowers  I  will  bring  to  my  favourite  nun.  .  .  . 
God  grant  she  is  still  alive  !    What  altar-cloths  I  will 


THE   SERIO-COMIC   GOVERNESS  563 

weave  with  my  silver  and  gold  !  Yes,  the  wages  of 
sin  shall  not  be  death,  I  will  pay  them  to  the  life  eter- 
nal ;  my  dowry  as  the  bride  of  Christ.  I,  too,  shall 
be  laid  on  the  altar,  my  complex  corrupt  soul  shall  be 
simplified  and  purified,  and  the  Holy  Mother  will  lead 
me  by  the  hand  like  a  little  child.  But  all  this  will  be 
caviare  to  you.     Adieu.     I  will  pray  for  you. 

"  Eileen. 
"P.S. —  It  is  a  convent  that  trains  the  young,  so 
I  shall  still  be  a  Governess." 

"  And  perhaps  still  a   Serio-Comic,"  thought  the 
Baronet,  bitterly. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  GHETTO 


"The  book  is  intended  as  a  study,  through  typical  figures,  of  a  race 
whose  persistence  is  the  most  remarkable  fact  in  the  history  of  the  world, 
the  faith  and  morals  of  which  it  has  so  largely  moulded." 

—  From  the  Author's  Preface. 

"This  famous  novel  deals  with  the  life  of  the  Jews  who  swarm  in  the 
East  End  of  London.  It  is  a  wonderful  book  that  portrays  them  and 
reports  their  lives,  straitened  by  so  narrow  a  horizon."  —  Boston  Courier. 

"  Others  have  written  about  the  Jew  —  George  Eliot,  for  example  —  but 
no  such  book  as  this  ever  has  appeared.  As  a  social  study  it  is  a 
phenomenal  work."  —  Congregationalism 

"  The  story  is  one  of  the  very  best  which  will  be  offered  to  readers." 

—  Albany  Times-Union. 

"  Wonderfully  realistic  novel  —  the  book  is  sure  to  become  a  classic." 

—  Boston  Home  Journal. 

"Intensely  interesting  and  picturesque."  —  Minneapolis  Journal. 

"  It  has  been  recognized  as  a  masterpiece  as  a  novel,  but  it  is  more.  It 
gives  a  picture  of  Jewish  life  that  is  exceedingly  valuable  and  interesting, 
as  well  as  comparatively  unknown." — Providence  News. 

"  Every  line  he  writes  shows  an  intellectual  force  that  is  rare,  even  in 
the  gifted  army  of  clever  writers."  —  Kansas  City  Star. 

"  Fascinating  and  cleverly  executed."  —  Worcester  Spy. 

"  In  portrayal  and  development  of  character  he  is  unimpeachably 
accurate.  Not  one  of  the  personages  in  his  book  but  is  alive  from  the 
moment  of  entrance  to  the  moment  of  exit."  —  Boston  Commonwealth. 

"  His  power  of  description  is  simply  wonderful  as  displayed  in  this  book, 
and  one  feels  on  closing  that  he  has  actually  visited  the  places  described." 

—  Detroit  Free  Press. 


THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY, 

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THE  KING  OF  SCHNORRERS. 

GROTESQUES    AND    FANTASIES. 
By  I.  ZANGWILL, 

Author  of  "Children  of  the  Ghetto"  "Merely  Mary  Ann"  etc. 

Illustrated.    i2mo.    Cloth.    $1.50. 


"  Mr.  Zangwill  has  disclosed  to  us  an  inviting  field  never  before  exploited 
in  fiction,  and  the  sketches  he  has  printed  are  in  a  kindly  and  humorous  vein, 
true  to  life,  and  highly  entertaining."  -«-  Table  Talk. 

"  The  audacity  of  this  '  King  of  Schnorrers  '  is  something  unequalled,  and 
it  is  enhanced  by  the  pithy  and  original  style  in  which  the  author  writes." 
—  Boston  Budget. 

"  There  are  sixteen  stories  in  the  book,  and  not  one  of  them  but  is  as  im 
probable,  as  bright  and  glancing  in  its  satire  and  fun,  as  gravely  comic  and 
comically  grave,  as  any  man,  in  or  out  of  his  senses,  could  wish.  All  the 
stories  of  the  volume  abound  in  odd  and  ludicrous  situations,  and  more  than 
justify  the  high  expectations  raised  of  this  humorous  story-teller  by  his  first 
success  in  humorous  fiction."  —  Chicago  Graphic. 

"  Mr.  Zangwill  is  the  wittiest  of  modern  Englishmen.  Not  only  has  he  a 
style,  flexible,  graceful,  and  as  light  as  the  flight  of  a  sea-bird,  but  he  has  ideas, 
and  the  art  of  sketching  delicious  situations  in  an  original  and  charming  way. 
The  sin  of  obviousness  he  cannot  be  accused  of,  nor  the  greater  crime  of  repe- 
tition. Like  the  great  German  (Heine),  he  conceals  under  the  rose-leaves  of 
his  idyllic  verse,  the  sharp  thorns  of  ironic  allusion.  There  is  ever  lurking 
under  his  sentiment  a  sarcasm —  delicate  as  a  petal,  but  as  perceptible  as  the 
pea  to  the  princess  through  all  the  sixteen  mattresses.  Not  the  unconven- 
tionally of  the  dramatis  personce,  nor  the  strange  locale  in  which  they  move, 
explains  fully  the  fascination  of  'The  King  of  Schnorrers.'  Manasseh  de  Costa 
is  a  creation,  a  delightfully  humorous  figure  whose  magnificent  pretension  and 
impertinent  wit  give  him  a  place  in  the  gallery  of  celebrated  characters. 
Without  question  the  story  is  a  tour  de  force,  a  masterpiece  of  its  kind,  with 
more  wit,  humor,  and  imagination,  and  dexterity  in  it  than  one  finds  in  the 
collected  writings  of  Mark  Twain,  Bill  Nye,  Jerome,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  sad 
band  of  professional  fun-makers  with  whom  the  critics  have  had  the  audacity 
of  classing  Mr.  Zangwill." —  San  Francisco  Wave. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY, 

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it 


They  that  Walk  in   Darkness " 

GHETTO    TRAGEDIES 
By    I.    ZANGWILL 

With  a  Photogravure  Frontispiece  after  a  Picture  by 
LOUIS  LOEB 

i2mo.      Cloth.      $1.50 


Mr.  Zangwill's  name  has  now  become  known  wherever  the  Eng. 
lish  language  is  spoken,  and  he  has  become  the  acknowledged  inter- 
preter of  the  romance  and  reality  of  the  Hebrew  race,  not  only  as 
represented  in  the  London  ghetto,  but  in  the  Jewish  quarters  of 
various  cities  on  the  continent  and  in  America. 

As  novelist,  essayist,  and  dramatist  he  has  achieved  distinct  suc- 
cesses, but  his  short  stories  remain  perhaps  the  most  noteworthy 
of  his  productions,  containing  so  much  of  human  interest,  com- 
bined with  most  interesting  sketches  of  Jewish  character. 

His  stories  convey  a  sense  of  vast  resource,  and  their  great  variety 
lends  additional  vigor.  In  one  we  have  extreme  realism,  in  another 
poetic  imagery  at  its  best,  perhaps  the  two  artfully  combined  as  in 
so  many  where  into  the  ghetto  of  to-day  is  introduced  the  mysticism 
of  the  Jewish  faith. 

This  collection  of  short  stories  represents  a  very  wide  range  in 
point  of  time,  covering,  as  it  does,  examples  of  the  author's  wonder- 
ful art,  written  at  various  times  during  the  past  ten  years. 

They  have  remarkable  tragic  force,  but  the  sombreness  is  to  a 
great  extent  dispelled  by  the  subtle  humor  which  has  ever  distin- 
guished the  author's  work. 


"  This  volume,  to  our  thinking,  contains  the  cream  of  his  work." 

—  The  Bookman. 

"The  talent  of  telling  a  story  in  a  fascinating  way,  the  power 
of  using  language  in  its  most  effective  and  graphic  manner  .  .  .  are 
traits  Zangwill  possesses  to  a  wonderful  degree,  and  evidences  of 
them  mark  every  page  of  this  new  work  from  his  facile  pen." 

—  The  American  Hebrew. 


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